


bluebird

by isntrio



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Coming of Age, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isntrio/pseuds/isntrio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 2,789 miles between New York and Los Angeles is a long way to go alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you taste like sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from bukowski's poem of the same name.
> 
> thanks bunches to [nora](http://larry-darling.tumblr.com/), for being the nicest person ever, and for creating [this](http://8tracks.com/lovinglouis/bluebird-for-ren) amazing playlist!
> 
> and every thanks to [annalee](http://officiallylouie.tumblr.com/), for being the best beta, and friend, really, and for creating [harry's mixtape](http://8tracks.com/annaleeleec/mixtape), which will also be linked in the fic. she deserves the world and more.
> 
> [my tumblr](http://bloubird.tumblr.com/)
> 
> have a lovely day x

_**There’s a bluebird in my heart that** _  
_**wants to get out** _  
_**but I’m too tough for him,** _  
_**I say, stay in there, I’m not going** _  
_**to let anybody see** _  
_**you.** _

**New York, New York**

There are no stars in New York.

They’re washed out by bright city lights on the ground — the streetlights on every corner selling headlines, the light flashing from yellow taxi cabs, the lights coming from cold concrete buildings towering over the skyline — and they make the stars fade away in the sky until it almost feels like they were never there in the first place.

Stars don’t exist in New York. The light that covers the city, covers the sky. How dare it think it’s that important.

A car blasts its horn in front of him, snapping him back into reality — and out of the silent rant he found himself having about the disappearance of the stars — and he mumbles out an useless _sorry_ before jogging over to the next intersection, an angry red car almost running his foot over, an even angrier person in the seat giving him the finger as they drive away with the smell of rubber burning behind them.

The corner of Fifth Avenue and West Sixty is a prime spot for human life, tourists gathering around to listen to a street performer play _Rondo Alla Turca_ , the fleeting and hurried notes of Mozart matching the busy tempo of a thousand footsteps all moving at once. The sound of car sirens can be heard over the noise, the rush of people passing, girls laughing and twirling their hair as guys wrap their jackets around their shoulders, grinning into each other’s eyes and —

And it’s 10:23, Friday night, the wind in his hair and the shout of the world on his mind, when Harry decides he’s really fucking alone.

He finds it almost ironic that he feels alone, because it’s not an okay thing to feel when people are everywhere — brushing shoulders or offering street work — and sometimes he wishes everything would stop for just a moment, wishes the smell of their sweaty armpits and smoker breath would disappear, and he would try to be alone in a city that fights the very thought of solitude.

An insistent buzzing vibrates in his back pocket, the same insistent buzzing that has been plaguing him for the past two days, never leaving his mind. He grits his teeth and ignores it, lets it go off until he can’t feel it anymore.

He knows what will be there if he answers it. An angry phone call from Gemma, yelling at him for fucking off in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye. Shouting for leaving the lights on or leaving his dirty socks on the floor. She would be easy to handle, easy to brush off and pretend it’s nothing.

He knows his mum would be harder, because she won’t be screaming at Harry. She won’t even be mad. She’ll just leave little voicemails. Little _Harry, where have you gone off to?’_ s or _Harry, where’d you go?’_ s or the _Harry, why did you leave?_

Why did he leave? He wonders that, too.

Central Park is quieter, better for thinking and leaving everything and everyone behind. It’s better for clear thoughts and mindless daydreams, hearing the car sirens fade away until they’re nothing but a memory and a dull ache in his ear.

He chooses a spot between two lampposts, dark enough that Harry can go unnoticed by the casual passing bystander. Which, that’s exactly what he wants, to disappear without anyone ever realizing.

But, maybe not disappear, exactly. Maybe just become someone else entirely, someone who doesn’t want to die at the thought of returning home and seeing the mess that he’d left.

Maybe if New York had stars, he’d wish on one. He’d wish to be someone who is happy, someone can who smile without feeling like the corners of his mouth are being pulled down by two ton weights, someone who has a purpose, someone who has _someone_ —

“Hey, there.”

Of fucking course. It’s Harry’s first instinct to get up and bolt, escape this situation and hide in his room drowning in self pity while listening to his neighbors blast shitty pop music through thin, hotel walls.

“Excuse me?” The voice is high pitched and raspy at the same time, and it has Harry’s head turning to the figure next to him. The darkness of the night hides most of their face, but he can make out an outline of a nose, a curl of a lip, a pair of sunglasses covering a majority of their face. They’re sitting too close for only knowing Harry for a full five seconds, almost sitting in his lap, close enough for Harry to make out the hairs peeping out from underneath his snapback.

“Hello.” Sunglasses smiles up at Harry, and even in the dark he can make out a beautiful grin, smiling ear to ear. It makes something in Harry’s chest flutter, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile of his own. The boy — or man, he looks like he could be a year or two younger than Harry — places a book in Harry’s lap, and Harry recognizes it as the _Oxford Dictionary_.

What the fuck. Harry feels like he’s on one of those game shows, and someone will pop out of the bushes with some balloons and a banner reading _You just got Punk’d!_

“So, I’m playing this game with myself.” Sunglasses opens the book up to a page and points to a word. He smiles again at Harry, which really isn’t fair because how is Harry expected to concentrate when a smile like that is in front of him. “I look down at a random word and whatever that word is, I find someone who I think, really, _personifies_ that word.” He turns the pages frantically in Harry’s lap. “It’s like writing a living poem.”

If this was any other day, and anyone else touching his lap as if they didn’t then they might actually _die_ , he would try to tell them with a grand smile on his face to go away, and he’d be on his very merry way, thank you. But — there’s something in the way his voice lit up as the corners of his mouth turned that makes Harry stay.

“What?” Is the only word that manages to leave Harry’s mouth, and he immediately wants to take it back because it sounded too rough and harsh, too much so to be spoken in the presence of this boy, and he’s really not good with this.

Sunglasses only laughs — a very lovely laugh, one that Harry would like to hear again — and takes his dictionary back, folding it in his arms. “It speaks!”

Harry finds the corners of his mouth turning up the slightest bit. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just imagining things.”

“Wow, mister sad boy here can crack a joke.” The boy smiles some more, always smiling. “I was beginning to think that you had no sense of humor, all lonely and solemn here. Was afraid you were having some sort of mental breakdown, or something.”

Harry can see himself on the break of one, if he’s honest. He shrugs his shoulders and looks at the way the boy’s pink lips curl. “I don’t really like talking.”

“That’s Fine, I’ll do the talking.” Sunglasses leans over further on the bench until he can rest his dirty, Vans-clad feet in Harry’s lap, getting far too comfortable for the two of them being complete strangers. “I’m pretty good at reading people. I bet I can guess why you’re sad.”

“I’m not _sad_ — ”

“You’re a student, fresh out of uni,” he begins, and if it weren’t for the giant sunglasses covering his eyes, Harry imagines they would be piercing into his skin. “You probably majored in something fancy and important, like medicine or law.” He can so clearly imagine the roll of his eyes, exaggerated and a bit dramatic. “And you probably left home suddenly, realizing the terribly boring life you were bound to have with your degree, and now you’re off seeking _adventure_ or something.” He bites his pink lips and smirks. “How right am I?”

Harry widens his eyes the more Sunglasses speaks, how he catches things that most people probably wouldn’t notice. Harry wonders, if only for a brief moment, who he is talking to. “How did — ”

“During the summer, tons of uni kids come to New York seeking a _fun, new world_.” He scoffs at his last words, rolling his shoulders back. “And then they’ll fuck off to like, Florida or something. Have you ever been to Florida? Don’t go. It’s just old people drinking orange juice and playing golf.”

Harry doesn’t know really what to say — except that this is by far the strangest conversation he’s ever had with a stranger — but he finds himself wanting to stay.

And of course, the only words to leave his mouth are, “What if I like golf?”

The boy raises an eyebrow, arched just over the curve of his sunglasses. “Then, you’re really weird. I’m disowning you as my friend.”

“Wow, you’ve truly broken my heart.” Sunglasses laughs at that, all out shoulders shaking, and Harry couldn’t help but to laugh with him.

Sunglasses pushes himself closer to Harry, his feet and legs now curled up in his lap. Harry has the compulsive need to throw his legs off or hold them closer. He does neither, because that would be strange, and he doesn’t want to scare this boy off.

“I feel like I deserve your name,” Sunglasses says, and pokes Harry in the chest for emphasis. “Since we _are_ friends.”

“It’s Harry.” He says it almost too fast. “What about you?”

“Not important.” Sunglasses grins some more, and Harry wonders what he looks like when he’s not plastering on a smile. “Names are so silly, anyways. Imagine being assigned something your whole life that you don’t like.” He tilts his head up to the sky. “Silly, silly things.”

The back of Harry’s mind wants to know who the fuck he’s talking to, because there’s not a lot of times where Harry can say he met a boy, and this boy is really something he wants to meet again.

“ _Harry_.” The boy’s raspy voice dips up and down as he says it, encircling and unraveling it, making it far too complicated for a word with only two syllables. “Well, _Harry_ , what are you trying to do right now? In this very moment, if you had to do something, what would it be?”

Harry would like to do a lot of things, and would kind of enjoy doing nothing as well. And he figures, if he never sees this boy again, he may as well tell the truth. “Disappear,” he decides. “Disappear and never come back.”

“Great, me too.” Sunglasses holds the dictionary like it contains more than just words. His smile is just as brilliant as ever. “I would love to disappear. Maybe we can disappear together. Into the night, all Batman and Robin style. Or Bonnie and Clyde. Or Romeo and Juliet.”

“Romeo and Juliet died,” Harry says, and shrugs. “And for what? Nothing.”

“ _Love_.” Sunglasses nudges Harry’s shoulder. “Someone is a pessimist.”

“And someone is an optimist.”

The boy rolls back and lets his feet hit the ground. “Well, you know what they say, opposites attract and all — ”

A clock somewhere in the distance chimes eleven, and the boy’s head snaps up quick as a viper. His face relaxes into a grin, and he drops the dictionary onto Harry’s lap.

“Something to remember me by.” He smiles some more, and Harry would like to wipe that smile off his face. “I’ve got to get going. Lovely meeting you.”

He stands to turn his back to Harry, but something makes Harry stand up and grab his hand, warm and soft against his hand. It’s only when they’re both standing that Harry can notice how small Sunglasses is, and it’s strange to think that someone who seems like they fill up so much space, takes up so little.

“Wait,” Harry breathes, and what the fuck is he going to say. “Where can I find you again?”

Sunglasses turns around and rocks back on his heels, a chuckle in his grin. “Not sure, Curly. I can barely find myself sometimes.” He slips his wrist out of Harry’s grasp and he disappears almost as quick as he came.

Harry wants to follow his silhouette, ask him what he meant, ask him about himself because he has the sudden urge to want to _know_ , but he doesn’t. He stands there and looks out into the bright city lights and watches until it all blurs in his vision.

He wonders if he had just imagined the whole thing, made up some sort of beautiful boy in his mind. All he can hear is the beat of his heart thumping in his chest and the sound of that voice ringing and he decides, that maybe.

Maybe he’s found something.

_**When I saw you I fell in love,** _  
_**and you smiled because you knew.** _

**New York, New York**

It’s really stupid, and also kind of pretentious, to say that the moon shines down on only one person, and Harry tries to be anything but stupid and pretentious, but when he sees the boy sitting on the same park bench the next night, it looks like the moon had lined up just right to illuminate him, a star in a place where there are none.

New York doesn’t have stars. Except, maybe one. Maybe.

The boy looks up before Harry can even say anything, his sunglasses sitting on the tip of his nose. His face expands into a smile. “Harry!” It’s almost scary how well Harry knows this voice already, how it was the only voice ringing in his ears the rest of the night and day before. Sunglasses makes Harry feel like the most important person in the world when he says his name. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

Harry knows he should probably turn back before he finds himself further into the mess he’s in right now, because it’s not like he’s in a good state of mind to start diving head first into a relationship, especially because the last one he was in ended up with him throwing away all his cameras and photos and basically everything else he was passionate about.

Sometimes he tries to think about life before university, where he and his friends could spend hours just talking and laughing, Harry always taking pictures and his friends would laugh at him and say _look at mister artsy over here_. And then he tries to think about when it changed, where his life seemed to have no other meaning than to _finish that fucking essay, Harry, I’m sick of you always fooling around_ or to complete his thesis, because _what else was are you good for, really._

“Oh, Harry?” He feels fingertips dig into his arm, being pulled down to sit on the bench. He lands close enough to feel the warm body of Sunglasses next to him, and the thought of him only makes Harry smile further. “I thought I’d lost you there.”

Harry turns to bite his lip, looking down at the boy. His snapback is gone, replaced with a fringe falling down into his glasses. Harry imagines that his light, caramel-colored hair would look nice with grey eyes, the color of the smoke emitting from his cigarette, or the shade of green of the grass in Central Park.

Harry is sure they’re lovely, no matter what they are.

“What can I say?” A grin hangs on his own face. “You just make my mind melt, like a popsicle on a hot day, like candle wax dripping, like butter in a pan, like — ”

“Alright there, Shakespeare.” Sunglasses laughs, and Harry decides he really, really likes making him laugh. “Although, I do tend to have that effect on people.”

“You tend to have a large ego.”

Sunglasses scrunches his nose, shoving Harry’s shoulder and scoffs. “With good reason. I once had a boy write sonnets about my eyes. Said they were _bleu comme la mer_.” A puff of smoke leaves his mouth and he blows it into Harry’s face, the cloud of grey making him cough a little. “Later he said that I was the worse thing that ever happened to him, but you know.” Sunglasses waves his arm around into the smoke. “Probably thought he was being poetic.”

He’s still smiling, which makes this whole thing that much more unsettling. Harry doesn’t know if he’s lying, is the thing. The way he says stuff like it’s a story, like _maybe_ it happened or _maybe_ it didn’t. Like he wants people to figure him out instead of him just blurting it out.

“I don’t know your name.” Harry settles on that, because he still wants to know. He can’t keep calling him Sunglasses in his head, and a beautiful boy deserves a beautiful name. “I should know your name by now. It’s like, a rule when you meet strangers. First, you have to introduce yourself like normal human beings. For example,” he sticks his hand out to shake. “My name is Harry. And you?”

Sunglasses takes his hand. “My name,” he begins, “is not important. I, in general, am not very important. Because — you know — in the grand scheme of things, my name is going to just be a word, but I am going to be a _real_ person, and me as a person will have more impact on the world than me as a word.” He blows his cigarette again, flicking it down onto the pavement, grinning back up at Harry. “Make sense?”

No. Harry is actually a lot more confused than he was before, and is really not quite sure what to say, but he must go too long without talking because Sunglasses is opening his mouth before he can even utter a word.

“You say you want to disappear. But where to? Lots of people want to disappear, whether it be home after a long day at work or maybe to bed to take a nap. People always want to be where they aren’t.” The boy shrugs and smiles at Harry. “Some want to go into, like, oblivion, completely forgotten. Where do you want to go?”

That’s a good fucking question. Because while Sunglasses does sound kind of like a self-help therapist, he also has a really good point. Harry doesn’t know, just that he wants to go away and not deal with what he will inevidently have to deal with. There’s a lot of places to disappear to, but nowhere that clears his head.

He wonders if he could disappear into a person rather than a place.

No. That’s odd.

“I want to go,” Harry says. And then stops, because he’s absolutely not going to say what he’s about to say. He’s _not_. “I want to go wherever you are.”

Sunglasses freezes for a moment, smile on his face falters just the slightest bit that it would go unnoticed by most people. But most people aren’t Harry, and most people probably aren’t staring at the boy’s lips like they’re the most wonderful thing in the world.

“That’s a stupid thing to say.” Sunglasses rolls his shoulders back and recovers his beautifully heartbreaking smile. “Very stupid. Very dumb. Could get you into trouble saying stuff like that.”

Harry knows it’s stupid. “What can I say? You’re just very interesting.”

And he is. And Sunglasses very well knows he’s interesting, with the way he carries himself. He has to know within the past moments they’ve been talking that people have glanced at him the slightest bit, like they can’t help but notice him. He has to know that people can’t help but see him and want to know more.

“You don’t know anything about me.” The wind picks up, blowing Harry’s hair away from his face, curls falling over each other. “Hell, you don’t even know my name.”

Harry laughs, rolls his head back and kind of wants to scream. “Fine.” He tries to play with words the same way the boy does so seamlessly. “Where would you like to disappear to?”

The boy licks his lips, the tip of his tongue getting caught between his teeth and Harry can feel his heart against his ribcage. “Why would I tell you that? You’d just follow me there.”

“You already know me so well. Shocking.”

Sunglasses sticks his small tongue out before kicking Harry’s ankle. “Los Angeles.” He tilts his head. “It’s far, far away.”

“Los Angeles.” Harry repeats.

“It’s 2,789 miles from New York.” And he says the next part almost like an afterthought, like he didn’t really mean to say it. “A long way to go alone.”

And the next few thoughts in Harry’s mind are whirling and spinning and all too much. And he puts together things like stars in the constellations, lining up so perfectly and precise and there’s no way that this is going to happen, no way he can say this in a way that would make sense to either of them.

But the boy is smiling back at him and there’s nothing Harry thinks he wants more than to see it one more time, or twice, maybe three, but.

He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

_**Let’s chase the sun past the** _  
_**hill top seams.** _  
_**Let’s chase the sun away from** _  
_**haunted dreams.** _

**New York, New York**

His name is Louis.

Harry learns this as they’re driving through Lincoln Tunnel, yellow lights flashing past them like fireflies in the dark, going much too fast for the car they’re driving. It’s an old, navy truck, rust covering the doors and it’s more of a faded, light blue than anything, but. Louis had said he borrowed it from a friend, and _it is perfectly safe Harold, calm down._

It’s not exactly the car that has Harry holding onto the seat like his life depends on it — although it kind of does. Louis drives without a care in the world, freely and as fast as he wants, and Harry would make him stop, would drop out right here and say that this, that _them_ together were a terrible idea.

But Louis is laughing as he drives and the light catches in his hair like water to spiderwebs and he is so very, very lovely like this. Harry doesn’t want this to stop, doesn’t want to stop looking at Louis and everything he is.

And Harry hasn’t felt like this in a long time, not since he was eighteen, wide-eyed and ready to take on the world with his camera and dreams. Harry hasn’t laughed this hard since he was eighteen, hasn’t taken a liking to someone this hard this fast, hasn’t looked up at the sky and thought _wow, I am alive_ since before university.

And now that Harry knows his name, he can’t stop saying it. Can’t stop with _LouisLouisLouis_ pouring out of his mouth like a waterfall he can’t control, spilling out of him but the words are soft and caress his tongue.

_LouisLouisLouis._

The car smells like cigarette smoke and mint and looks like Harry’s dream.

_**The stars never rise,** _  
_**but I feel the bright eyes.** _

**Seaside Heights, New Jersey**

“Louis.”

“Yes?”

“Why are we at a beach?”

The east coast shoreline is on their left, a vast area of pale blue seas and sands, the only shade coming from the puffy white clouds above. A pale, yellow sun peeps between the sky, just over the horizon. Seagulls are screeching amongst them, just noticeable from the ground. Few people lay across the beach, children splashing in the water, but it’s almost empty, and almost lovely.

“The real question is,” Louis begins, rolling down a window. The fresh air hits them in the face, whirling past their ears. “Why didn’t we go to the beach _sooner?”_

And Harry can understand then why Louis had decided to stop. Because it really is a nice day out, and everybody looks happy and grand, and Harry should stop thinking about being happy and start actually _being happy_.

Start being happy, Harry repeats to himself in his head, like some sort of mantra. Start being happy, start being happy, start —

Louis digs his fingers into Harry’s ribs and giggles — a fucking giggle, high pitched and raspy and _that_ , Harry decides, makes him very happy. “What are you waiting for?” Louis opens the door and jumps out, Harry following. “We should get some ice cream, go swimming, get a tan. You’re looking a bit pale.”

The sand is hot under his feet, seeping between his toes as Louis drags him further along the coast, settling a bit further away from the few people at the beach. “So, Harry.” They sit side by side, and Harry thinks if he leans over just an inch, their arms would be touching. “Mister Law Major, am I right?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, liking the way the breeze catches in his curls. “Unfortunately.”

“Why law?” Louis’s eyes are still stubbornly obscured with his giant sunglasses, sliding down the tip of his nose. “I don’t know anyone who would want to major in law. Seems awfully boring.”

“Well, I am an awfully boring person.” Harry thinks back to his nights spent alone in uni, cooped up in his bed, nose stuffed in his books. “Very boring. Decidedly very uninteresting.”

Louis tilts his head and grins. “Well, _Harry_.” Louis always says his name like Harry is the most fascinating person on Earth, and Harry finds himself wanting to hear Louis say his name over and over, maybe in a more obscene way, a more wet and breathy pant of _HarryHarryHarry_. “I find you very interesting. Thrilling. One could say almost _enigma-like_.”

Harry almost snorts at that, because Harry is exact _opposite_ of being an enigma. He is dull like an eraser, entirely underwhelming, almost useless. If he had to be anything, he would probably be sand. Dull and bland.

If anyone would be the enigma, it would probably be Louis. Louis, who he has barely known for two days, is probably the only thing that has caught Harry’s attention in the past couple years. He’s everything Harry isn’t and everything Harry wishes he could be. Very bright and charismatic, just enough so people are left wondering _who is he._

“Enigma?” Harry asks, letting his toes disappear into the sand. “That’s a big word.”

“Words are very important, Mister Law Major.” Harry can’t see his eyes, but he imagines their twinkling. “I love words. Especially other people’s. Other people are better at using words than I am.”

Harry pauses for a moment before asking. “Did you major in literature? Music? You seem like the type.”

“No.” Louis laughs and falls back on the sand, sun falling down on his arms. He looks like he’s _glowing_. “Believe it or not, you don’t need a degree to know something. I know that’s difficult for an intellectual law major like yourself to get your head around, but you can appreciate the arts without having to go through three years of school.”

“What does that mean?” Harry chuckles and shoves Louis’s arm — lightly, ever so lightly. “I happen to love the arts.” He knows he says it like he’s joking, but he remembers the feeling of his camera in his hands and he knows he really, really isn’t.

“Really?” Louis shoves him back, grinning. “Favorite author?”

“Ah, yes.” Harry puts his head on his hand as if he were in deep thought, furrowing his eyebrows. “Dr Seuss was all the rage back in primary school.”

“Dr Seuss.” Louis snorts and rolls onto his stomach, eliciting a groan. It’s too dramatic and Harry wants to roll his eyes, because that’s just it, Louis is dramatic and exaggerated with everything he does. “What an icon, truly.”

“What have you got against Dr Seuss?” Harry laughs, watching as the sand blows over Louis’s form. “He’s a literary mastermind. _Green Eggs and Ham_ will be remembered for hundreds of generations.”

“What a shame,” Louis mumbles into the ground. Harry wonders how he’s even breathing with his nose shoved into the sand. “Authors like Bukowski and Fitzgerald don’t deserve this mistreatment.”

“Not everyone has some sort of pretentious literature complex.”

Louis looks up at that, sand dusting his smile ridden cheeks. “It’s not _pretentious_.”

“Then why this unnecessary hate for Dr Seuss?” Harry leans back on his arms, letting the sun hit his shoulders. “I thought you would love him, with the whole quote, _a person’s a person no matter how small_.” The last few words come out shaky with laughter, and Louis’s grin falters.

“Did you,” Louis begins, “just call me small?”

“What if I did?” Harry laughs further, the noise losing itself in the wind. “You can’t really deny it.” And he really can’t, because Louis is small. Not in the way that makes him seem less than others, actually it’s quite the opposite. He calls attention to people, narrow and built of bird bones, always trying to make himself seem larger than he actually is.

There’s challenge in Louis’s voice. “ _Harold_.”

Harry thinks he’s enjoying this, watching Louis squirm underneath his gaze. “Teeny tiny Louis.” He pouts, in mock sincerity. “So small and little.”

“I’m not small.” Louis sticks his nose in the air as if to justify his words. “I’m actually quite large. Terrifying, as big as the Hulk. Children shriek at the sight of me.”

Harry looks at Louis’s sprawled form, taking up too much space for how little he really needs, and a smile expands on Harry’s face as an idea comes to him. He stands up, his shadow stretching across the expanse of pale sand, and in one fluid motion, wraps his arm around Louis’s tummy and throws him over his shoulder.

It seems like Louis’s first instinct is to kick Harry in the face, which Harry effectively misses if only by a few centimeters. Louis screams against Harry’s back, his body thrashing and squirming, only causing Harry’s grip around his legs to tighten.

“I don’t know about you being big.” He pats Louis’s bum for emphasis, which earns him a punch in the back and an attempted kick in the groin. “You seem pretty light up here.”

Louis moves more against Harry’s hands, his arse right by Harry’s face by the way Harry’s got him held. “I swear to God, Harold, if you don’t let me down — ”

“You’ll what?” Harry asks, walking towards the ocean. The waves lap at the shoreline, and the clear water sends shivers up his spine as he steps deeper and deeper, just hitting his hips.

“I don’t fucking know, just let me down.” Louis’s sharp elbows dig into his spine. “This could be considered like, physical assault or something. You should know, you fucking _law major_ — ”

Harry should've thought this through, really, before he decided that letting go of Louis was a good idea. It is a good idea, very clever in his opinion, but Louis’s grip on the bottom of his shirt sends both of them tumbling down into the water in a sprawl of limbs and _what the fuck, Harry!_ Harry tries to gasp for air before he hits the water, but it’s too late and his mouth — and any other visible orifice — fills with water.

Even underwater, he can hear the muffled sounds of Louis’s laughter echo in his ears, and it sounds faintly like a dream, like he’ll wake up and none of this will be real. It’s only when he breaks through the surface with a gasp, sucking in precious air, that he thinks this really is a dream.

Because Louis is standing there, shirt clinging to every curve of his body, and that should have been the extent of it. But his sunglasses lay floating in the water next to them, being washed away in the sea, and Harry can finally look at _Louis_.

During Harry’s second year of university, there was a girl across the hall from his dorm who would sell blue pansies in exchange for food. And most of the dorm ignored her, because they were all broke ass uni kids who could barely afford their own food, but. Harry liked the color of the pansies, the extreme blue of them reminding him of home, where he used to spend hours taking pictures of the blue of the sky. And he exchanged ramen noodle packages for pansies and let them sit on his windowsill until they wilted, petals fading to a dull yellow on his windowsill when winter turned and blue skies turned to grey.

Louis’s eyes look even brighter than the flowers. They almost glow off his skin, like the fluorescent lights of New York City. They are startling, and threatening in a way, long eyelashes framing them, dripping water down his cheekbones. His cheekbones cut across his skin, so sharp and angled that Harry is sure they could break something.

Probably Harry. Louis is probably going to break Harry, really.

“No need to look so surprised.” Louis laughs, his shirt sticking to his shoulders as they shook. His hair flops down into his eyes in one wet clump. “I am quite beautiful. Don’t know why you’re so shocked.”

Harry has to remind his body to _breathe_. “Always the modest one, you are.” He’s proud that he can even he those words out of his mouth. “What’s the point of the sunglasses anyways?”

There’s no time to answer before Louis is shoving Harry underwater, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulders. The water burns his eyes, clogging his nose. But he still feels himself laughing, even with the water filling his lungs. He grabs onto Louis’s hands and flips them both over with a shout, so Louis is under the water with him.

And they’re laughing, and the sun is beating down at them through the water, and Louis smiles at him from beneath the waves, his hair floating above him like a crown, and.

And Harry smiles, too.

_**We lived in the blank white spaces** _  
_**at the edges of the print.** _

**Seaside Heights, New Jersey**

Louis is staring at him. Louis is also sucking on a popsicle.

Harry has a hard-on.

It’s not a hard-on. Because if he had a hard on, it would mean that he was attracted to Louis sucking a popsicle, wrapping his rose pink lips wide around a bright, cherry red object, eyes blinking innocently back at him, the blue reflecting off the now black sea and the lights from the boardwalk filling them with mischief and grins and _God, fuck_ will he ever get over those fucking eyes.

But, no. Not a hard-on.

Louis licks a long stripe up the popsicle, maintaining eye contact with Harry, A bit of red liquid drips down his chin, which then he darts out his tongue to lick it up, lips curling up into a smirk. It’s not fucking fair.

“What’re looking at, _Harry_?” Louis raises his eyebrows, amusement in his face. His fingers go out to catch the rest of the liquid that he didn’t lick up, sucking them into his mouth and popping off, looking far too innocent for the effect he’s having on Harry’s hard on.

Harry shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, attempting to cleanse his mind of all thoughts of Louis with any sort of substance dripping down his lips. “Oh, nothing. Just looking at the boardwalk. Isn’t it lovely?”

It _is_ lovely, is the thing. Every small shoppe is filled with a new treat, some sort of candy or another, a smiling clerk inside to welcome. Games are set up every which way, prizes of teddy bears or sad goldfish. Children drag their parents to the ferris wheel, running down the wooden planks with scraped knees and laughs. Fairy lights hang from each booth to the next, the light reflecting off the ink black sea. People are laughing and smiling and having mindless fun.

And all Harry sees is Louis. It’s not fucking fair.

“Am I being distracting?” Louis smirks and darts his tongue out, lapping at the bit of red he didn’t catch. “Because if so, I can stop.”

“Why would you be distracting me?” Harry tilts his head back and laughs, more so at himself than anything else. “You’re the last thing on my mind.”

Louis gasps and puts a hand to his chest. “Oh, God.” He clutches his chest dramatically, falling to the side. “You’ve bruised my poor, fragile ego.” He’s laying down on the wood, head lolled to the side and eyes closed in theatrics. “How will I ever survive this?”

Harry rolls his eyes and nudges his foot to Louis’s side. “Alright, princess. Get up, you’ve had your fun.”

“Don’t know if I can. Not after I’ve been insulted this way.” Louis’s eyes are still shut, but the corners of his mouth are threatening a smile. “The world is a cold, cruel place for people like me.”

“Clearly,” Harry muses, cracking a grin on his face. Louis is so _weird_. People walking down the pier are glancing at him, giggling. Not in the way that degrades someone, but rather in utter fascination. It’s like people can’t help but look at him. Harry can’t blame them.

Louis peaks out from one eye. “If only I had a handsome knight to save me from this tragedy.”

“If only.”

“I happen to know one,” Louis begins. “Curly brown hair, green eyes, likes to insult the innocent for no reason.”

Harry kicks his leg back and forth, and he wonders how odd he must look, talking to a person playing dead on the ground. He doesn’t think about it. Instead, he shakes his head. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“Well in that case,” he rolls onto his stomach and splays his limbs out. “I will lay here for the rest of my days, never to be recovered. Goodbye, cruel world. As Hamlet said in Act 3, Scene 1, Line 146, _Farewell_ — ”

“Oh my God.” Harry can feel himself laughing, feel his chest shaking. He bends down to grab around Louis’s waist, pulling him up to standing height. Louis’ is squirming in his arms, giggling the way that makes Harry’s heart pound, and he tries not to think about how easy Louis fits in his arms, but.

He sets Louis down on his feet before looking at him, still laughing. “You’re so…” Harry searches for the right word, catching his breath. “You’re so, so — “ He looks into Louis’s eyes, so bottomless and deep and everything, everything is in them. “Strange.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “I’m the strange one?” He points his finger into Harry’s chest. “ _You’re_ the one with the laugh that sounds like a bleeding elephant.”

“Hey now,” Harry starts, crossing his arms. “It’s not that bad. I can’t change it.”

“Never said I wanted you to,” Louis grins. His grin is the way it was they first met, too impossibly wide and bright to be real. “It’s endearing.”

Harry rolls his eyes so far, they hit the back of his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

Louis walks closer to him and leans in on his tiptoes, whispering into Harry’s ear, “And you’re my knight in shining armor.”

A rush of heat passes through Harry’s body, his legs unsteady underneath him and it feels like the world is spinning fast, faster than anything Harry’s ever seen. Louis is a few steps away now, smirking and giggling and Harry’s feet move before he does.

Harry thinks he’d do anything for him. It’s almost terrifying.

_**It’s so much safer to not feel,** _  
_**not to let the world touch me.** _

**Highway 76, Pennsylvania**

Louis has his feet hanging off the dashboard — no socks, _because socks are for the weak, Harry_. He’s nodding to whatever song is playing on the radio, his feet bobbing to the beat, and if Harry listens close enough he thinks he can hear the faint sound of Louis singing along. The moon is shining through the windows, highlighting his cheekbones, the shadows of his eyelashes.

Everything about him is intense, to the way he speaks, how he demands attention and gets it, to the way his eyes look at people as they’re speaking, always listening, but never, ever letting his guard down.

Louis likes to talk. Louis likes to talk about everything, to the color of the sky — it’s black, and it reminds him of the color of old ink, Louis tells him. He talks about the authors he has read, takes out a book and reads a few lines to Harry, and Harry thinks they are quite pretty, but then again, any words coming out of Louis’s mouth would sound pretty.

Louis just fills quiet with anything and everything he can. He reminds Harry of rain, in the sense that he’s never quiet, always something coming out and filling the silence.

One of Louis’s favorite topics is Harry. Everything Harry is, about Harry likes, just _HarryHarryHarry_. He asks Harry insistent questions, never stopping for a breath in between. _What’s your favorite animal? Where’s your hometown? Where would you want to visit? What are you passionate about?_

_What are you passionate about?_

That question rings in Harry’s ears too long, too much. He knows, he thinks, at least. He knows it’s not law, it’s not staying up until four in the morning running on nothing but caffeine and the threat of not graduating after spending the past three years working for a certificate. He knows it’s not working a nine to five office job, knows it’s not waking up every morning loathing his life, knows he wants to have a purpose.

_I like taking pictures,_ Harry had said, and then immediately shook his head. _Sorry, sorry, that’s stupid._

And Louis had looked at him with something behind his eyes, a smile lingering on his lips as if he knew something Harry didn’t.

_No. That’s not stupid at all._

_**When you stop doing things for fun** _  
_**you might as well be dead.** _

**Edie, Pennsylvania**

Gas stations at two in the morning are rare sights, lit with dim, flickering yellow above their heads. The sound of a fan can be heard in the corner, not doing much other than moving hot air from one side of the room to the other. A radio plays on the cashier counter, static [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FyY8a1wskE) humming through the otherwise empty store.

Louis stands between the sodas and the juices, eyebrows furrowed as if picking between Pepsi and Coke was the most difficult life decision he ever had. He cocks his hip out and turns to Harry, holding both sodas in his hand.

“What do you think?” He waves the sodas in the air. “Pepsi or Coke?”

Harry shrugs and leans against the wall, picking at his nails. He’s tired, and it’s two in the morning, and he’s really not in the mood to spend thirty minutes deciding between soda brands. “Choose whatever your heart desires.”

“My heart desires caffeine and sugary beverages.” Louis eyes the soda bottles once more before throwing one at Harry, which in hindsight was possibly the worse decision Louis could of done with the circumstances.

Or, maybe the best, depending on how someone looks at it.

The soda bottle — Pepsi, Harry sees — lands in his arms upside down, the cap just loose enough to open up and explode all over his jeans, the hiss of the fizziness running down the leg of his pants. He jumps and kicks it away, hard enough for it to spin towards Louis and spray at him, the sticky liquid landing on his shoes and legs.

Louis squeals and giggles, kicking away the soda bottle down the chip aisle. “ _Smooth_ , Harry,” Louis snorts and shakes the other bottle in his hand. “It takes true talent to be that clumsy.”

Harry opens his mouth to argue, but before he can even do that, a spray of soda lands in his mouth, over his shirt, and a fit of laughter follows. He feels the soda seep into his skin, the way ink seeps into paper. Harry gasps and throws his arms up.

“What the _fuck_ — ” He manages to get out before more soda hits him, and he’s beginning to think that this is how he dies. In a gas station in the middle of Pennsylvania, death by the drowning of soda. He can see the headlines now: _Tourist Found Dead After_ —

Louis is damn near _cackling_ at this point, bottle of soda empty in his hands. “Harry, your face!” He covers his mouth as more laughter erupts, as striking as lightning. “You were just, like — ” He can’t even finish a sentence, grabbing his stomach to ease himself.

It’s Harry’s first reaction to scold him, reprimand him like some sort of parent would to a child. Because this isn’t right, because now he’s soaking and wet and getting sticky in places that should never, ever be sticky.

But it’s Harry’s second reaction to grab the sprayable cheese on the shelf next to him and squirt it all over Louis’s laughing form. And that’s what he does.

Yellow strings cover Louis’s hair and face, streaking down the front of his shirt. It only has Louis laughing more, scooping some up from his face to stick into his mouth. “Wow,” he smirks, sucking the finger. “Delicious.”

Harry knows he should stop this now, before it gets even more out of hand than it is already. But there’s a can of cheese in his hand and he’s smiling without even meaning to, and there’s a boy in front of him who literally personifies sunshine, so.

Fuck it.

Harry shakes the can of cheese some more, walking towards Louis with a menacing smile. Louis raises an eyebrow and shrugs, turning on his heels to run off down the aisle, grabbing materials off the shelf and turning on the corner. Harry nearly runs into the wall, slipping on the slick tiles, but recovering quickly and chasing Louis.

Louis throws the next bag of _whatever the fuck_ is found in this god forsaken gas station, landing somewhere on Harry’s torso. He doesn’t care, and if he’s honest, he couldn’t care less. Instead, he grabs whatever is closest to him and throws it at Louis, landing on his hips.

What Harry finds to be the most unfair thing in all of this, is that even after Louis is covered head to toe in seven layers of gas station food, Louis is still one of the most beautiful people he’s ever encountered. Harry stands, dumbfounded for a few moments, just marveling at Louis covered in chips and soda and something brown that Harry really does not what to think about what it is.

He’s still so, so lovely. And it’s unfair in every way possible.

Louis has a can of whipped cream in his hands — where did he even get that, really — and a grin on his face that reads _trouble_. “Harry,” Louis almost sings his name, teasing it along his tongue. “Are you ready?”

Harry will never be ready for Louis. Louis is all spontaneous moments and late night rendezvous, surprises and impromptu meetings. Harry would never even imagine doing this with anyone else. Couldn’t imagine really _living_ with anyone else like this.

“Whenever you are,” Harry says instead of everything else that is on his mind, because he’s going to chase Louis off if he says any of that. He just chases Louis down the aisle with a shout and a laugh, throwing a bag of popcorn, some pieces landing in Louis’s light hair.

And the next part happens all in a blur, so sudden and fast that Harry isn’t sure it exactly happened. But he hears Louis squeal _Harry!_ and he feels his arm reach out to grab him before they both come tumbling down in a mess of limbs and yells, landing on cold, sticky tile.

Both of them are laughing so hard they can’t breathe, catching their breath as their lungs contract, feeling like there is a weight on their ribs. Their laughs echo through the store, the radio barely even audible from how loud they are, the sounds echoing off the walls and back to them.

It’s only when Harry manages to breathe that he realizes their positions, realizes that he’s _on top_ of Louis, their legs sprawled amongst each other, his own arms bracketing either side of Louis’s head. And Louis’s flushed face is looking up at him, crinkles at the corners of his smiling eyes, still laughing.

“Hey,” Harry says, his hot breath mingling with Louis’s. They’re both panting, the shared air between them hot and heavy.

Louis grins. “Hey.” He shifts his body a little, and they’re so close. Louis is under him, almost with their chests flushed, hips nearly rubbing next to each other. Harry’s heart is hammering in his ears, the rush of blood pounding against his head as he watches Louis under him.

Louis is under him. Words he never thought he could say.

“Caught you,” Harry whispers. The air between them is almost tangible. Harry thinks he can hear the hiss and crackle of fire between them.

“You can’t _catch_ me, Harry.” From this close, Harry can see each individual eyelash of Louis’s, how his eyes roll. “I’m not a bird.”

“What if I can?” Louis’s eyes are so, so blue. “What if you are a bird? My little bluebird.”

If Harry leans in just an inch, he thinks his and Louis’s lips would be touching. They could slot perfectly together, Louis’s pretty pink lips against Harry’s, touching, maybe their tongues pressing against each other, moaning into each other’s mouths —

Something cold hits his nose, and Louis giggles, sliding out from underneath Harry. A drop of whipped cream falls from his face onto the ground, and he grits his teeth and pulls himself up to a standing position.

“That line was incredibly cheesy.” Louis sprays some more whipped cream down Harry’s shirt as if for emphasis. “Almost embarrassingly so.”

“I’ll break you one day.” Harry scoops up the whipped cream on his shirt and flicks it in Louis’s hair. “My jokes are award winning. Nobody can resist me.”

Louis licks his lips — pink like roses, Harry thinks. He would like to kiss them. “Try me.”

_**The leaves are falling and so am I,** _  
_**falling apart.** _

**Route 70, Ohio**

Louis pulls them over on the side of the road, saying something about _the sky looks so pretty tonight, Haz. Look at the stars, look how they shine for us._ Louis drags the both of them over to the back of the truck, laying out a blanket and insisting they both lay down, that _the roads can wait, but the sky might never look like this again, Harry._

The sky is inky black and midnight blue, with the stars poured over the night like someone had spilt glitter across the expanse. The stars shine and sparkle, so many of them dotted across the sky that Harry can’t even begin to imagine how many there actually are.

_Harry,_ Louis begins, looking at Harry with such intensity that Harry can feel him burning holes into his skin. _People are compared to stars a lot. You know why?_

_Why?_

_Because stars are beautiful and rare in their own right, and we like to think that we are all special,_ and Louis’s eyes glaze over a bit and turn back over to the sky. _But they’re so much prettier when they are destroyed. A supernova._

The stars reflect off of Louis’s eyes, making them sparkle and shine, and they seem endless. Harry wouldn’t mind getting lost in them for a few years, spend eternity looking into them. His eyes hold everything Harry could want.

Harry takes Louis’s hand in his own, watches how the stars in Louis’s eyes turn to glance at their connecting hands before turning back to the sky. Louis bites his lip and whispers.

_We are so much more lovely when we fall._

_**She was passionate about the rain** _  
_**and I was passionate about the way she loved it.** _  
_**It was that way with everything.** _

**Route 70, Ohio**

A primrose yellow sun peers over the mountains, casting long shadows across vast fields and small towns. Birds fly over the pale blue sky, calling the world awake and filling the air with the sounds of chirping. A ray of sunlight falls over Harry’s face, blinking him awake.

He groans at the crick in his neck, stretching it up and letting out a low moan at the relief. The hum of the radio plays in the background as he breathes in and out, disoriented as to where he is, until he feels a knee in his back and he winces some more, rolling over onto his side.

Harry hears his breath hitch, his eyes suddenly widen when he’s greeted with a mouthful of hair. _Louis’s hair_ , light and golden when the sun hits it. Louis looks so gentle, wrapped in a blanket and hair falling into his face, the morning light hitting him softly, caressing his face. He yawns, pink lips forming a perfect O, before his eyes flicker open, long lashes over his cheekbones.

Harry has to remember to breathe. _In and out. In and out._

“Were you just watching me like a creep?” Louis’s voice is raspy when he wakes up, Harry’s just learned. He would like to maybe hear this voice again, maybe in a different circumstance, maybe with Louis wrapped up in his bed.

“S’not weird,” Harry says, tugging the blanket off of Louis, who groans and falls back on his stomach, shirt riding up. If Harry’s eyes linger on the dip where Louis’s bum meets his spine, he doesn’t have to know. “Can’t help myself. You’re adorable in the morning.”

Louis hums and shoves his face into his arms, his hair sticking up in more awkward angles. Beautiful all the same. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“I don’t know, Lou.” Louis’s eyes turn to Harry at the nickname, and if Harry looks close enough he can see the faint smile lingering on his lips. “You’re very beautiful. Like your eyes, the prettiest blue I’ve ever seen. Your ankles — ”

“My ankles?”

“ — your ankles,” Harry continues, grinning at Louis. “Are so, so delicate. Very pretty. Don’t get me started on your bum, _wow_ — ”

Louis kicks him in the side, scrunching his nose up as the light hits his eyes. “You’re dumb.”

“And you’re pretty.” Harry tugs on Louis’s arms until he sits up, the shoulders of his shirt falling to expose his collarbones. Harry’s eyes linger before turning away, not imagining Louis in his own clothes, not imagining how large they would be on him, how they would fall to his thighs. He doesn’t imagine waking up to carry Louis into the kitchen, making tea while Louis hangs off his back and kisses his neck and doesn’t imagine Louis in _his_ sheets in _his_ bed.

Why would he imagine things that will never happen. He knows that people like Louis, people who shine like stars and crash like waves, don’t fall for people like Harry. Harry is the sand, Harry is the empty sky. Harry isn’t made for someone like Louis.

It’s still a lovely thought.

_**I like you better than anything** _  
_**in the sky.** _

**Cambridge, Ohio**

Louis shoves a pancake in his mouth — Harry has lost count of how many pancakes he’s eaten, just that it’s a lot, and a person so small shouldn’t be able to eat that much food — and he’s smiling with his mouth shut, almost moaning at the taste of syrup on his tongue. Nothing but the sharp clang of utensils and the sound of the waitress’s nails tapping rhythmically on the counter can be heard throughout the diner.

“You hungry?” Louis asks, looking up from his plate. Even with syrup dripping down his face, he’s lovely. “Plenty to go around.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I finished thirty minutes ago. After my first serving. Like a normal person.”

“I’m not normal.” Louis grins, piece of pancake stuck in his teeth. Harry finds it wonderfully endearing, almost wants to reach over the table and lick it off — but no, that’s weird, and Harry shouldn’t be blushing thinking about licking anything out of any of Louis’s orifices.

There’s a click clack of heels on the ground, making it’s way towards them. The waitress cocks her hip out, the red of her skirt matching the red of the diner seats. “Want some more coffee?” She says _coffee_ like _cawfee._

Louis turns from his plate, giving _Sophia_ — her nametag reads — a smile. “No, thank you.”

She stares at Louis a moment longer before tossing her brown hair behind her back and turning to Harry. “How ‘bout you?”

Harry mutters out a faint _no_ and she walks away, heels clicking against the black and white floors. Louis props an elbow on table, resting his head on his hand. He tilts his head to the side, giving Harry a sickly sweet smile.

“You’re thinking,” Louis says, shoving a mouthful of pancake. “What’re you thinking about?”

If this were a romance movie, Harry would say you as violin music swells in the background, and rose petals would fall from the ceiling as Louis realizes that he had felt the same all along, and they’d kiss and the waitress would be clapping and they’d ride off into the sunset on some white horse while some narration about how they lived happily ever after would play.

But this is not a movie, and Harry is dumb. “About the weather. Lovely, isn’t it? The sun is shining, birds are chirping, the — ”

“I love this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jC1vtG3oyqg)!” Louis slams the table, glasses rattling against one another from the force. Harry jumps a bit in his seat before settling back down, eyebrows furrowing, trying to recognize the beat.

A warm flood of familiarity fills his veins as he hears the first tempo pick up. He covers his mouth as his shoulders shake. “Oh my God,” Harry shudders out, cackling. “This cannot be happening. They are not playing this song.”

Louis scoffs, throwing a hand over his chest. Dramatic. He still has Harry smiling. “What do you have against the eighties?”

“Everything. The perms. The mullets.” Harry rings a hand through his own hair as if to show it off. “The sweatbands. Truly a disgrace to hair everywhere.”

Louis stands up from his seat and walks to the middle of the diner. He twirls once theatrically, grinning at Harry. “Come on, Harold.” Louis sighs. “Dance with me.”

Harry tries to contain the smile breaking away at his face. “I don’t know, Lou.” His feet move before he does, leading him towards Louis. “I don’t really dance.”

“Great, neither do I.” Louis wraps his hands around Harry’s, guiding them to his own waist. Harry’s hands look so large against the dip of Louis’s waist, how it curves to his hips and bum. It’s obscene, and Harry thinks if he spreads his hands, he could connect the tips of his fingers on Louis’s back.

Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s neck, humming the tune to himself. Harry can feel the flutter of Louis’s heart hammering, his fingers playing with the curls alongside Harry’s neck. Louis is hot underneath his fingertips, burning like the sun.

“This is strangely reminiscent of my secondary school prom,” Harry says, and Louis cackles, throwing his head back, exposing the column of his neck. It would be very, very easy to kiss right now.

Louis spins underneath Harry’s arms, giggling. “You went to your prom?”

“And you didn’t?” Harry tries to imagine a younger Louis ditching prom, probably thinking he was some sort of cool kid. A smile makes it’s way to his face. “You didn’t miss much. Lots of ill fitting tuxedos and awful boy band songs were played.”

“First you don’t like the eighties,” Louis begins, spinning around in Harry’s arms and letting Harry pull him back. He doesn’t try to think about how easy it is to pick up Louis. “And now you don’t like boy bands. What _do_ you like?”

_You_ almost comes out of his mouth again, and he inwardly laughs at his own ridiculousness. “I like quality music. And cats. And bluebirds.”

“Weird.” Louis hums, ducking underneath Harry’s arm as he turns. “Are you one of those people who likes shitty hipster music? Like the Arctic Penguins — ”

“Arctic Penguins?” Harry snorts, obnoxious laugh booming across the empty diner. “It’s Arctic Monkeys.”

“See, you even sounded snobby saying that.” Louis tugs on the curls on the back of Harry’s neck. “Maybe you should get over yourself and learn to appreciate NSYNC and The Backstreet Boys. _Bye Bye Bye_ changed a generation.”

“So did Justin Timberlake’s curly hair.” Gemma used to have a poster of him in her room with red lipstick stains across it. “His ramen noodle hair haunts me in my dreams.”

“Don’t dig on the hair. It’s what got me through my thirteen year old sexuality crisis.” Louis giggles and looks at Harry, as if searching for something. “Also made me realize I might have a thing for guys with curly hair.”

Harry laughs at that, his hands tightening around Louis’s waist. He pretends he doesn’t feel the way his heart skips a beat. “Really? Is that so?”

Louis rests his chin Harry’s shoulder, his breath tickling the side of Harry’s neck. He doesn’t have to look down to know Louis is standing on his toes, leaning his lips in to brush against Harry’s ear.

“Definitely.”

_**There are mountains inside your skull,** _  
_**garden and chaos, ocean and hurricane.** _

**Highway 70, Indiana**

It first happens during an impromptu game of Goldfish.

It happens when Harry realizes he knows nothing about Louis. He doesn’t know his favorite color, he doesn’t know his favorite novel. He doesn’t know the town he grew up in, the first boyfriend he ever had. He doesn’t know the small things or the big things and everything in between and he wants to. He wants to know Louis, wants to know the shade of blue his eyes turn when he’s in love, wants to know his siblings, wants to know how he likes his tea, how he ended up in a car with somebody he knows nothing about.

He wants to know _everything._

And it shouldn’t come as a surprise to Harry, when he asks _where’d you grow up?_ that Louis drops his cards on the floor of the car, spilling underneath his seat, and that Louis doesn’t even bother to clean them up. He stares at Harry, he can feel it, even with his eyes trained on the road, the intensity behind Louis’s eyes, how they’re burning holes into his skin.

And it shouldn’t come as a surprise that five minutes later Louis is screaming at him with tears running down his face and Harry is yelling back and pulling over onto the road. It really shouldn’t be a surprise that as soon as Harry stops the truck, Louis storms out screaming _fuck off, Harry_ with his voice choked from tears and Harry feels the weight of the world on his shoulders knowing he’s the one who caused it.

And it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Louis is punching Harry’s shoulders shouting at him to _go away, Harry!_ on the side of the road with cars passing them by. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Harry just holds Louis to his chest until Louis’s punches die out and there’s nothing but the sound of Louis’s sobs and the dripping of snot running down the front of Harry’s shirt.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, because Harry knows Louis wants to disappear. He knows he wants to get away from everything, that he’s running from something. He knows Louis isn’t one for just letting people in, knows he’s blocking out the world.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but somehow it still is.

_**We must bring our own light** _  
_**to the darkness.** _

**Lafayette, Indiana**

Louis wakes him up in a Walmart parking lot at the asscrack of dawn, with a thunk to his head and the sound of a faint giggle. There are fingers digging into his spine, jabbing between the bones and it takes Harry thirty seconds of this before he’s leaning up in the trunk, eyes still shut and blanket still wrapped around himself.

“Harry.” He feels Louis’s foot nudge his side. “Harry. _Harry_.”

“It’s too early for this,” Harry mutters, his lips barely forming the words. His voice is low and sounds like gravel.

Louis stops with his foot, and Harry is ready to fall back asleep when he feels a sudden weight on his lap, legs straddling either side of his waist, pointy fingers jabbing into his sides. “Harry.” Louis pesters some more, squirming in Harry’s lap that houses a part of Harry that he _really_ doesn’t want to be excited right now. “Come on.”

Harry’s hands come to rest on Louis’s hips, stilling the movement of Louis’s body over his groin because he’s not in the mood to have the awkward conversation of _Harry, I know you’re happy to see me, but._

He’s really, really not in the mood for that conversation.

“I got you a present.” Louis’s voice is high and flighty, almost like a bird as he says it. He squirms against Harry’s hold on his hips, bouncing up and down in his lap — which is really, really not helping his situation. “I got it for you. Come on, Harold.”

Harry’s eyes flicker open, eye lashes fanning over his cheekbones. Louis is smiling in his lap — he looks very nice in Harry’s lap, Harry thinks he should spend more time in it, really. The sun is barely out yet, and Louis has his arms hidden behind his back, eyebrows raised high to his hairline. Very lovely.

“What is it?” Harry’s words are slurred and slow, coming out as thick as syrup. “Too early. You’re too early. Everything is too early.”

Louis sticks his chin up and plops himself harder into Harry’s lap, grinding. Harry bites back a moan, tries to think about his grandmother, his grandmother naked, his grandmother naked in the shower, rubbing soap over her wrinkly skin and —

“Happy belated Birthday.” Louis pulls an item out from behind him, smile spreading on his face, ear to ear. “Thought you’d like it, and you had said you liked — ”

Harry stops listening, can’t listen. Louis sets the item down in Harry’s lap. A simple camera, black, small enough to fit into his pocket. It’s not much of anything really, could not have cost a lot, couldn’t of been particularly hard to obtain. It’s not a lot, and to most people this would be useless, another gift to be thrown into a box and forgotten in a basement.

“Harry?” There’s a flicker of hesitation in Louis’s eyes, so sudden that Harry isn’t sure it happened. “You okay? If you don’t like, you can say so.”

“No, no.” Harry doesn’t like it. He loves it, loves the thought of it, loves how Louis knew he’d like it. “It’s amazing. You didn’t have to. I don’t even take pictures anymore.” The camera is heavy in his lap.

Louis claps his hands together, and it reminds Harry of a child, excited for the smallest of things. “There’s no time like now!” He wraps his small hands around one of Harry’s, not quite being able to cover the entirety of it. They pick up the camera together, and Louis looks up at him with a smile that could wreck anyone. “Come on, take a picture.”

The camera feels like a ton in Harry’s hand, memories of earlier years flooding back. Harry looks down, his fists crushing it in his hands. “What would I even take a picture of?”

“Something pretty.” Louis shrugs, shoving the ends of his shirt up his arms, revealing an expanse of empty tan skin. Harry thinks that is something very pretty. “Could take a picture of the sky, or the grass, some cars, maybe some — ”

“You.” What the fuck is Harry saying. He swallows tightly, blood pounding in his ears and flushing his cheekbones. “Could take a picture of you.”

Louis flinches, the slightest bit backwards, almost unnoticeable. His face is unreadable, smirking but eyes contradicting, flickering around, up and down, side to side. He looks at Harry and grins. “Why not.”

He turns on the camera, the familiar sound of the lens clicking open, reminding him of his teen years, the times where he’d spend hours upon hours in the fields by his house taking pictures of Gemma or his mum, and the sky.

Louis rolls off of Harry’s lap, laying down on the mountain of blankets they’ve accumulated in the back of the truck, putting one hand on his hip and the other under his head. “Draw me like one of your French girls.” Louis waggles his eyebrows and cocks his hip out further, almost obscenely so. Harry’s eyes may linger on the dip of Louis’s waist.

He chuckles and hangs his head down to hide the flush rising on his cheeks, curls falling over his head. “I have to put flash on. You might go blind.”

“I’m blinded by my own beauty everyday.” Louis puts a hand over his head and falls back. Always the dramatics. “It’s okay.”

The picture is blurry and out of focus, the lighting is quite shit, and it’s not even close to doing Louis justice. But it’s Louis, and the sleeve of his shirt is hanging off his shoulder, and his eyes are bright and blue and it’s everything to Harry. He’s everything.

Louis stares up at him and blinks through long lashes. Unfairly long, too long, Harry thinks, for it to be real. “Was I good?” Louis grins.

“The best.”

_**You are a moment of quiet** _  
_**in a loud, shouting world.** _

**Chicago, Illinois**

Chicago is all tall, metal skyscrapers, cutting along the skyline like a blade. Chicago is cold and grey and dull, raining down on the streets as if it were constantly drizzling from the clouds, always sad, always unhappy. Chicago doesn’t know what the warmth is, it only knows the desolate loneliness of the empty skies.

Louis is the flush of red creeping on his cheekbones when Harry tries to sneak a picture of him — it doesn’t work, it never works, Louis sees everything — but Louis giggles and poses on Michigan Avenue and even amongst all the stiff business suits and loud shouts, Louis still looks as if he could break the world with just the curl of his pink lips.

Louis is _loudloudloud_ , louder than the sound of the trains rumbling beneath their feet, louder than the sound of the street performer pounding on a bucket and calling it music — Louis still gives them a dollar, and a smile, and of course, they have to smile back because _how are you expected to not smile when Louis is smiling at you_. Louis is louder than the thoughts that crept into Harry’s mind late at nights during university, Louis pushes them away and replaces them with laughter and smiles and grins.

Louis lets themselves get lost, tugs on Harry’s sleeve and jump from train to train until all the signs begin to look the same and there’s nothing Harry can look at except the crinkles by Louis’s eyes whenever they arrive somewhere new. Louis watches the world and Harry watches Louis, eyes never lingering.

Louis is the past, he’s the present, he’s what Harry sees in his room in ten, twenty, fifty years. Louis is the cracks in the walls and the shattered windows of abandoned buildings, he’s the human canvas for chaos. Louis could set the sky on fire but he’s burning Harry instead.

Louis likes to stare out the train windows when the sky goes down and there’s nothing but darkness, the flash of lights cutting across his cheekbones, and he likes to say things like _people don’t fall in love with people like me_ , which makes Harry wants to grab his shoulders and scream because everybody falls in love with Louis. Harry sees it as they’re walking down the streets, the smile people get, as if Louis embodied the sun all in his little body.

Harry wants to scream until he can’t because the words _I love you_ hang on his lips like paint dripping down the walls, and Harry thinks if his soul were a color, it would be grey and dull and the exact opposite of Louis’s.

Harry doesn’t know the color of Louis’s soul. He really has no fucking idea.

_**I would set myself on fire if you ever** _  
_**complained your feet were cold.** _

**Chicago, Illinois**

A queen sized bed and two queer boys. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

Louis takes the bed — not so much as takes it, but throws himself on it and disappears into a mess of white sheets and cotton — and Harry doesn’t feel like it would be a wise decision to jump in the bed and smother him, so.

He situates himself on the floor. There’s an extra pair of sheets and blankets waiting in the bathroom, and he lays them out until he can flatten himself onto the ground, ignoring the slight wince that passes his lips as the knobs of his spine dig into the ground. He ignores that, ignores the way his feet hang out the edge of the sheet just the slightest bit, exposing them to the cool air, ignores the sound of Louis’s faint breaths coming from the bed. Ignores it all. He’s good at that.

Things could be worse. He could be alone in New York still, still in a hotel room where he doesn’t do much at all but pace back and forth and pull at his hair. He could be having the same feeling vacant feeling that he couldn’t put his finger on, a small space that always seemed a bit empty. He could be.

But he has Louis. And he couldn’t be happier about it.

And he’s so damn happy about it that he doesn’t notice the fucking pillow being pushed into his face.

His leg involuntarily kicks up, hitting nothing but air. The press of the pillow is harder against face, his nose is flattened by the weight. His arms go up to grab onto something, preferably something to fight back with, but there’s nothing. A weight gets put on his chest, light and heavy at the same time, pressing against his lungs.

This is how he dies, in a hotel room in the middle of the fucking midwest. By a fucking pillow of all things. He thought that when he died, it would at least be something cool, like trying to save his partner from a fire or dying in war. But, no. A fucking pillow. He hasn’t even had a chance to tell his mother how much he loved her, or to check his bills. For fuck’s sake, just imagine the amount of mail that is going to pile up back home —

“What are you doing, Harry?” A fit of giggles erupt from above him and the pillow is released from his head. “Why the fuck are you on the ground?”

The giggles vibrate through his chest, and it’s only when he opens his eyes does he see that Louis is on his chest, Louis is straddling his chest, Louis is laughing uncontrollably with his legs squeezing either sides of his ribs and even though the pillow is removed from his face _he still can’t breathe._

“Are you truly _that_ repulsed at the thought of sleeping in the same bed as me?” Louis makes a face, the corners of his lips curling down and his lip jutting out. Harry wants to reach up and turn them around — he’s much lovelier when he smiles. “Here I thought you had begun to finally like me. Damn.”

Louis curls a finger in a strand of Harry’s hair, and Harry tries to regulate his breathing. (It’s kind of hard when there is a beautiful boy rubbing small circles into his chest and looking down at him like he’s something special. Harry’s not special. Very not special.)

“You alright there?” Harry would like to tell Louis that he is not alright, not in the slightest, but. “You’re looking a bit blue.” Louis runs a hand down Harry’s face, a thumb rubbing against his cheekbone as he pouts. “ Don’t worry, it’s a nice color on you.”

Louis is going to kill him — both figuratively and most likely literally. Harry’s hands come to settle on Louis’s hips, trying to lift him up the slightest. “Louis,” Harry chokes out. “Louis, what are you doing?”

“I was laying in bed and I was like, wow, this bed is strangely empty.” Louis speaks with his hands, throwing them around and tugging his hair. “And then I was like, something seems to be missing. And I realized,” Louis breathes in to catch his breath, grinning on the intake. “It was you. Funny, that.”

Harry licks his lips and taps his fingers on Louis’s waist, training his eyes on the dip between his hips. “So,” Harry begins, closing his eyes to avoid looking at Louis’s staring down at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means.” Louis pushes one of Harry’s hands away from his body and pulls the both of them up, toppling them over onto the bed until Harry’s face is buried in the smell of lilac fabric softener. “It means that I want you to sleep with me.”

Harry thinks that if they had met a few years earlier, in a club in London, and Louis had said those exact words to him as they were dancing up against each other in a dirty fashion — dirty, because Harry wouldn’t have been able to control himself — and they were different people, in a different place, in a different time, they would find themselves together. Maybe even happy, and Louis would wake up in the morning with Harry’s shirt hanging off his shoulders and Harry would make him breakfast, and they would laugh as the London sun crept it’s way up the sky, and Harry would look into Louis’s eyes and see something that had been missing, and Harry would have the strength to ask to see him again, and they would both know that it was the start of something greater than the both of them.

“You do that thing a lot.” Louis’s knee digs into Harry’s back, and Harry turns over to face Louis, the moon cutting shadows over Louis’s cheekbones. It still takes Harry’s breath away every time. “You turn your rings like.” Louis reaches over and grabs one of Harry’s fingers, twisting the ring up and down the knuckles. “You do that when you’re thinking.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows and tilts his head to look closer at Louis, look how his eyes are focused in on Harry’s fingers, how his tongue sticks out the slightest bit. Harry wiggles his fingers against Louis’s, and Louis tangles their fingers until they’re interlocked between the two of them.

“Do you want to hear a joke?” Harry breaks the silence. He’s too used to Louis’s stream of words pouring out of his mouth. Quiet creeps up on him and touches his lungs, feels like he can’t breathe.

The corners of Louis’s mouth curl up in a smile. “I’m not sure.” He swings their arms back and forth on the bed. “Will it make me want to throw myself off a cliff after hearing it?”

“Only one way to find out.” Harry thumbs over the bone on Louis’s wrist — it sticks out, creates a shadow of it’s own. “Although, I’d prefer you don’t throw yourself off a cliff. I would be very alone.”

“Because who else will listen to your amazing jokes?” Louis grins and wraps his ankles around one of Harry’s legs, tucking it between his thighs. It’s very warm, feels like he’s laying out in the sun, and Harry wouldn’t mind spending a few days like this.

“So, it’s a knock-knock joke.” Harry doesn’t have to look at Louis’s face to know he rolled his eyes, muttering _of course it is_. “Knock-knock?”

“Harry.”

“Knock-knock?”

“Are we really doing this?”

_“Knock-knock?”_

“Fine, wow. Who knew someone could get so intense about a knock-knock joke. Your vein almost popped out of your head. Who’s there?”

“Olive.”

“Olive who?”

“Olive you.” Harry wonders if he could be more subtle. Wonders how many times he’ll have to say _I love you_ without saying the words _I love you._ There’s only so many jokes he knows before it becomes —

“Horrible.” Louis lets go of Harry’s hands in favor of covering his mouth, giggles muffled. Harry wants to rip his hands off and tell him that he can be as loud as he wants, that his laugh is most definitely the one he wants to hear everyday. “That was awful. Not only do I want to throw myself off a cliff, I also want to throw everyone I know off a cliff so they are not subjected to this torture.”

“You know you love it.” Harry moves the leg between Louis’s thighs, kind of wanting to rest there and make it his home — but that would be weird. “You love everything about me.”

“If it feeds your fragile ego, sure.” Louis chuckles and curls onto his side, his eyelashes fluttering over his cheekbones. “Your eyes are a nice color. I’ll give you that.”

“They’re your favorite color.” Louis’s eyes are his favorite color. Louis’s eyes are everybody’s favorite color, really.

Louis sighs and throws a pillow over Harry’s head, his curls tangled in the mess. “Goodnight, Harry.”

Harry knows he’s about to say something stupid, something that he’ll most definitely regret in the morning, something along the lines of _your eyes are my favorite color, sometimes I want to drown myself in them. They’re so blue, blue is a good color on you, every color is good on you, you’re my favorite color —_

But. He’s met with nothing but the small sound of Louis’s breathing, his shoulders moving up and down with his hair messy and he looks so gentle, so very not capable of everything he could do. He just looks like a boy, and Harry realizes that’s all Louis is. A boy.

If Harry takes his camera out and kneels on the end of the bed, ever so gently, as to not wake Louis — Louis would probably poke fun at Harry, pose on the bed and laugh at how ridiculous Harry’s being. If Harry takes a picture of Louis in the sheets, all his sharp angles softened by the moonlight pouring on his skin, well.

Louis doesn’t need to know.

_**Sometimes the only way to catch your** _  
_**breath is to lose it completely.** _

**Chicago, Illinois**

Louis would be under him, his eyelashes blinking against his cheekbones — pretty, always pretty for Harry — and his tongue licking at the head of Harry’s cock, teasing over the slit and palming at the base where he can’t quite reach, his hand too small for the size of Harry. Harry wouldn’t mind, would tug Louis’s hair to get his cock further down Louis’s mouth, feeling the flutter of muscles at the back of his throat, would tug harder until Louis is moaning around him, spit dripping down his chin. Messy.

Louis would be whining on Harry’s fingers, his hair stuck on his forehead as the cold metal of Harry’s rings would meet his rim. He would be loud, legs shaking as Harry hits his spot, crying out Harry’s name, _HarryHarryHarry_. Louis would beg for it, beg for another one of Harry’s fingers, beg for Harry to fuck him, to ruin him, to have Harry peel away every layer of Louis until all he can see is the flush of Louis’s chest, the red creeping up like a sunrise, warm and lovely.

Louis would be so, so tight around Harry, and Harry would never fail to tell him, whisper things like _look at you, baby, all wrapped around my cock, so tight, so pretty_ and Louis wouldn’t be able to form words as Harry pounded him into the mattress, the headboard banging against the wall from Harry’s relentless hips against Louis, his cock rubbing against Louis’s prostate with each thrust. And Louis would be gasping, clutching at the sheets as Harry fucks him deeper and harder and Louis would fall apart with the word _Harry_ on his lips.

“Harry.”

Harry nearly slips on the slick tile of the bathroom floor, catching himself just on the edge of the shower curtain, a collapse of shampoo bottles falling along the side. A clatter of them hit the floor, ringing against the fall of the water, which used to be scalding on Harry’s back, but it feels like it runs cold now.

Louis is all light words. “How are you doing on this fine morning?” Louis asks, sitting onto the counter. He sticks his toothbrush under the sink, shoving it into his mouth. “Weather is quite nice, isn’t it?”

Louis shoves the toothbrush further into his mouth, the tip of it poking out of his cheek. There will never be a time where Harry doesn’t think Louis sticking something down his throat is unattractive. Harry swallows and is painfully reminded of the still hard cock he has laying in his hand.

“Louis,” he says between his teeth. Not because of anger, just because of the _hard fucking cock still laying in his hand, God damn it._ “Get out.”

“Why?” He looks up, grin on his face, gaze meeting Harry’s between the crack of the shower curtain. It’s a beige color, and thick enough to cover any of Harry’s bits. His hard bits. His hard bits he would like get taken care of. “Don’t act all special, Harry. I’ve seen other dicks before.”

There’s a burning pit in Harry’s stomach, something almost possessive of him. How can he be possessive of something that isn’t even his. “Just, get out!”

Louis slumps against the mirror, splaying his legs out to Harry, which is not helping the case on Harry’s hands. “Why?” Louis asks, the toothbrush still running through his mouth. “You seemed just fine with me standing here watching you wank less than ten seconds ago.”

Harry hits his head on the back of the shower wall, his hair dripping down his shoulders as he closes his eyes. “You were,” he begins, “you were watching me wank.”

“You’re kind of loud when you wank.” Louis spits his toothpaste back into the sink. “I was trying to get some sleep, and all I heard was _uh uh, fuck, god, uh, tight, uh_ — if that is what you truly sound like in bed, we need to fix that. For future partners, of course.”

“Fuck off.” Harry’s cock is still hard under the hot water, and he just really, really wants to finish his wank.

“We all have needs, I understand,” Louis says, putting a hand over his chest in mock sincerity. The fucker. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. It’s not like you have a bad dick. As a matter of fact, you should _embrace_ it — ”

Harry throws the shampoo bottle at Louis, actually throws it. He misses by a few feet, and he gets nothing but Louis’s laughter echoing across the bathroom walls, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to them, metallic and ringing.

“Fine, fine,” Louis giggles, backing away from the curtain. He bends over the sink — Harry doesn’t look. “I’ll leave you to your wank. Try to not wake up the whole building.”

Harry waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting before letting himself slide down the wall, his back slick against the cold tile. He doesn’t even want to finish his wank, the water running cold and the thought of Louis walking in is enough for him to wrap a towel around his waist and turn off the showerhead.

He shakes his hair out over the sink, bending down to grab at his clothes. But. His hand meets air. There’s nothing on the floor, not even his fucking briefs, and it takes Harry a moment before to put the pieces together before he’s opening the door to the bathroom, cool air sticking to his slick skin.

“Louis?” It’s cold in this room, and Harry would very much like his clothes back. He needs at least some sense of pride. “Louis, give me my fucking clothes back or I’ll — ”

“You’ll what?” A chorus of giggles follow, and Harry twists around to find Louis. Not just Louis — because when is it ever _just_ Louis — but Louis leaning against the wall, smile in his voice, and Harry’s shirt hanging off the sharp bones of his shoulders, hitting the middle of his thighs. Harry thinks Louis looks quite good with floral print on, he should really try it more often.

Harry also thinks he can’t breathe, but Louis tends to have that effect on him.

“Harry?” Louis giggles some more. Harry thinks he hears the sun smiling. “Missing something?” He waves a pair of briefs in the air, raising his eyebrows.

“Louis.” Harry coughs. His voice is wavering. “Louis, give me my fucking clothes.”

Louis doesn’t. He raises his eyebrows higher and backs away from the wall, walking ever so slowly away from Harry. There’s a slight glint around his neck. It’s Harry’s necklace. “You’re going to have to fight for them.” Harry doesn’t even notice his own feet moving towards Louis.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Harry whispers. His feet are dragging across the carpet. “Absolutely fucking insane.”

Louis only smiles. “You’ve just realized that?” And he’s ducking underneath Harry’s arms and on the other side of the room before Harry can even blink an eye. He moves like a bird, all flighty and quick, too fast for Harry. Always too fast.

“Realized it a bit ago,” Harry says, more confident and loud. “Just thought you needed a reminder, you know.”

Harry goes out to run towards Louis, but Louis dodges and jumps onto the bed. “I appreciate your concern,” Louis says, smiling down at Harry where he still stands on the floor. “But I’m having a lot of fun.”

“That’s wonderful,” Harry murmurs, looking down at his feet. His bare ass feet. And his naked torso. He looks up at Louis. “You really should give me my clothes back.”

“No.” Louis bounces on the bed, the springs cringing under his weight. He gives Harry a lookover and smiles some more, never not smiling. “I’m kind of enjoying my view.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he attempts to climb up the bed, only to have Louis throw a pile of white sheets against him, a white parachute cascading around his body.

“Louis, what the fuck — ” He manages to get out, but Louis is throwing the sheets off and tugging Harry up on the bed with him, standing and jumping and laughing at nothing.

“Harry,” Louis giggles. He still has Harry’s clothes in his hands, the shoulder of Harry’s shirt dripping off his shoulder. Harry’s eyes don’t linger. “You really should store your clothes better. Who knows who will steal them.”

Harry chuckles, throwing his head back and rubbing his eyes. “I wonder who. It’s not like he’s right in front of me.”

“Definitely not,” Louis laughs with Harry. Harry goes out to grab his clothes, but Louis jumps off the bed and lands, all elegant and grace.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “You’re going to have to fight for it, Harry.”

Harry’s not good at fighting for things he wants. He’s good at schoolwork, and being mad at a lot of things, and pitying himself while playing cards alone at two in the morning. He’s good with himself, good with his own world. He’s not good with other people, not good at getting what he wants.

He’s really, really not good with Louis. But he wants to be.

Harry rolls off the bed and lands on the other side of Louis, staring each other down for a few moments before Louis is off, running in the opposite direction. Harry hops over the bed, nearly slipping on a pillow on the ground before almost catching Louis by the hem of his shirt.

_Almost._ He misses, Louis giggles. And he’s going to get this. He has to. Not only for his ego, but also the fact that he’s getting fucking cold, and he’s still only wearing a towel tucked carelessly around his waist, threatening to slip down at any moment.

Louis is in the middle of laughing, slowing down the slightest bit, and Harry takes this as his chance. He grabs the edge of Louis’s shirt — _Harry’s_ shirt, it’s _his_ fucking shirt — and spins them around, slamming Louis into the wall.

Louis gasps loud, like everything he does, as his body hits the wall, sending a slight shudder through the concrete. His eyes are caught in surprise, looking up at Harry through those thick lashes and _God_ , he’s so fucking beautiful. He’s everything Harry’s ever wanted and can’t have, smiling at Harry like an invitation to ruin him.

“Huh,” Louis breathes out, hot breath cascading down Harry’s neck. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

The air between them is almost crackling, hissing. How can Louis just _speak_ , talk like a normal person while Harry is _stuck_. He’s stuck admiring Louis for everything he is and everything Harry isn’t.

“You’re wearing,” Harry says between his harsh breaths. He’s realizing how close they are, his hands bracketing Louis’s head, how easy it would be to lean forward and have their lips touch. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

Louis nods, his eyes flickering between Harry’s eyes and Harry’s mouth, back and forth as if he can’t decide on one thing to look at. “Yeah.”

“Why are you,” Harry has to lean his forehead against Louis’s, leaning down to rest it. The air between them is too thick to breathe properly. It becomes dizzying after a while, inhaling only _LouisLouisLouis._ “Why are you wearing my clothes.”

“I like ‘em,” Louis slurs, words getting mumbled between his lips. Harry’s eyes are focused on the way they form the words. “They’re nice and big. They make me feel something.”

“What do you mean?” Harry says. His eyes are now shut and the only thing keeping him from floating away is the touch of Louis’s skin, feeling Louis underneath him, panting, trying to catch his breath.

“I dunno.” Louis says, and his voice is wavering the slightest bit. “They make me feel, like, something is happening. Warm. At home. They make me feel steady, not as shaky.”

Harry flutters his eyes open, staring down at Louis who is looking at him right back. “You’re so — ” Harry has spent so much time trying to find the word to describe Louis, and he decides that there are none, really. “Strange,” he decides. His breathing is so heavy, clouding up every other thought in his mind. “So fucking strange.”

“And you love it.”

And he does.

Harry smashes his lips into Louis’s, all passion and ardor and infatuation. It’s not fireworks like the movies. It’s fucking fire, burning up and eating away at everything. Louis is a blaze underneath him, hot and needy and it hurts to touch him. Harry is taking everything Louis is able to give. Harry thinks he is selfish like that, taking Louis for his own, letting himself be consumed by him.

Louis’s mouth opens, Harry’s tongue sliding along with. It’s warm, so fucking warm, teeth clacking against each other and tongues rolling together. Louis tastes like mint and smoke and stars.

This is not proper first kiss material. This is too much, feels too much like they’ve done this before. Then again, Louis has always been too much for Harry.

Harry’s hands move their way down Louis’s sides, grasping at _his_ shirt beneath his fingertips and hiking it up, his cold hands a sharp contrast to Louis’s burning skin. He digs his fingers into his ribs, the bones protruding across tan skin. He squeezes hard enough to leave faint, finger shaped bruises.

It’s only when Louis winces out a weak _“Harry”_ that he stops. He breaks away, a string of saliva caught between them. A wave of guilt washes over him, feels like it’s stabbing him in the heart, as he pulls away from Louis. He feels like there is something caught in his throat, threatening to spill over the edge.

“Louis,” he breathes out, breathless against his skin. His hands haven’t left Louis’s side, just barely grazing. “I’m so fucking sorry, you didn’t deserve that. Fuck, I really shouldn’t have done that, I’m so — ”

Louis tugs on Harry’s hair and pulls him back in, lips crushing against each other. Harry stumbles at the shock, catching himself by the arms and leaning closer to Louis, his leg balanced between Louis’s thighs.

“Fuck,” Louis whispers. “I’ve wanted you to do that for so fucking long.” Louis goes back in for another, just as harsh. “Just fucking kiss me,” he breathes, so hot. So fucking hot. “Just fucking do it, why aren’t you kissing me back.” He moans against Harry’s mouth. “Fucking kiss me.”

Harry does. Harry dives back in, tongue sliding right past his lips and starts fucking, harsh and rough and it’s exactly what he needs. He needs to feel something, and this, this is everything. He grabs onto Louis’s hips, gripping hard and pulling them up so Louis wraps his legs around his waist, rolling his hips up to meet Harry’s.

Louis’s hands are running all around Harry’s body, tugging at his hair and running down his chest and digging into his shoulder. He’s gripping onto whatever he can, feeling every inch, every dip and crevice and curve.

Harry’s towel is sliding down his hips, pooling around his feet instead. He doesn’t even give it a bother, just kicks it out of the way and hikes Louis up higher against the wall, pulling their chests together and crashing their lips together like tidal waves. Harsh and fast and sudden.

Louis is letting out little pants of _HarryHarryHarry_ for the brief seconds their mouths aren’t connected. He’s whimpering at the loss of contact, and who should Harry be to not help him.

“Harry,” Louis gasps between a kiss, Harry running his lips down the sharp edge of his jaw. “Harry, I — ”

Harry grabs two handfuls of Louis’s arse and pulls him up even higher, giving him more access to the exposed column of Louis’s neck. He bites down at a pulse point, kissing up the skin before sucking down and leaving a bruise above Harry’s cross necklace. Harry’s cock rubs over Louis’s pants, over his crack, over the one place Harry wants it most. Louis keens at that, moans high and loud into Harry’s curls.

“Louis,” Harry whispers against his neck. “Louis, you are _so beautiful.”_

Louis’s hand stills in Harry’s hair. His breath hitches above Harry, his whole body frozen beneath him. Harry stops his kissing looks up from his bruised neck, Louis looking wide eyed and.

And scared.

His eyes are no longer hazy with need or lust. He’s cold beneath Harry’s touch, such a drastic contrast from the fire between them just moments before. His chest is shaking, trembling. Harry can almost hear his bones rattling under his skin.

“Louis,” Harry says, kissing the corner of his mouth. He runs his hands down Louis’s arms, wrapping his hands over his wrists, careful and gentle. “Louis, did I say something wrong?”

Louis’s eyelashes are wet, blinking away his tears. Harry’s mind clears at that, lips brushing against his cheeks to mumble words against his skin.

“Louis, did I do something?” He whispers, keeping his voice quiet and soft. “Louis, you have to talk to me, what — ”

“Harry.” Louis’s voice contradicts his face, he thinks. He looks lonely, sad, like he needs someone. But his voice is all hard, hard, hard, coming out like daggers between his teeth. “Harry.”

“Louis — ”

Louis’s chest is shattering, cracking, like someone had broken glass, bits of Louis thrown across the ground. “Get off of me.”

Harry flinches at his tone, the words cutting him, drawing blood. “Louis.”

Louis’s hands tear Harry’s from his face, shoving Harry off his body and squirming. “Harry, get off of me, get off, _go away_ — ” His hands push Harry’s naked chest. _“Go away.”_

_Go away_ are words that sting on Harry’s skin, opening up raw wounds and Harry doesn't think he can handle those words from Louis. The air is so fucking cold without Louis under him, giving Harry his warmth. “Louis,” he shivers, “are you okay?”

What a stupid fucking question.

_**It is both a blessing and a curse** _  
_**to feeling everything so very deeply.** _

**Route 80, Iowa**

_Why don’t you feel anything?_ The words roll back and forth in Harry’s head, echoing in his ears, never quiet, never lessening. It’s ringing in his head when he thinks about everything Louis is, every smile he has thrown Harry, every careless grin and nonchalant laugh, always cold, never feeling.

_Why don’t you feel anything?_

It’s ringing in his head as he looks at Louis, smiling on the side of the road as he looks at the sky, and Harry thinks he should really stop looking at Louis, because he knows that when he looks at him, he won’t be able to stop.

Louis grins at Harry and waves him over, getting on his toes to whisper in Harry’s ear, _We should take a picture together._

And Louis doesn’t wait for Harry, because he already wraps himself in Harry’s arms, taking the camera from Harry’s hand and positioning it above the two of them, and it all happens so fast that Harry thinks he imagined the feeling of Louis’s lips on his jaw.

Louis points at the picture and smiles at Harry. Always smiling. Harry wants to see what he looks like when he’s not, wants to see Louis without the curl of his lips, without the glint in his eyes. He wants to see Louis, Louis all feeling and no coldness, Louis when he wants to yell at the sky or Louis when he needs to let the tears out behind his eyes or Louis with Harry, only _lovelovelove_ pouring between the two of them. Love like when flowers grow in your lungs and though they are lovely, you can’t breathe.

Harry doesn’t think he minds suffocating.

_**How unique is this human experience** _  
_**that we all just wish to be** _  
_**the most important thing on Earth** _  
_**to someone else.** _

**Route 80, Iowa**

Stars reflect off his eyes like water, like Louis is a mirror for everything in the world. He lays down in the back of the truck and tugs Harry down with him, both tangled in a pile of blankets and the stars seem to become brighter.

_Did you know what the Greeks used to believe?_ Louis whispers, his mind caught in the stars. Harry watches him, how his eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones as his eyes move across the sky. _They thought that humans once had four arms, four legs, two heads, and two hearts. But the Gods feared their power, and they cut them in half._

Harry waits a moment, feels how Louis’s hand slips into his own, his thumb brushing over his knuckle. _That seems a bit harsh._

_It was the worst curse they could have ever put._ Louis’s voice is barely audible, disappearing into the wind. _Because now they’re to spend their lives in search of their other half._

_That doesn’t sound so bad._

Louis turns to him, gives him a small quirk of his lips. It still makes Harry’s heart flutter every time. _But it is, because what if you can never find them? What if you’re condemned to a lifetime of searching because your other half doesn’t want to be found?_

Harry sees how the brims of Louis’s eyes fill, how they threaten to spill over like the way waves creep up on the sand, how they grow with every passing moment and Harry wants to reach out and kiss away everything behind his eyes until there is nothing but _lovelovelove._

_Don’t worry._ Harry says, so low he is sure the only to hear it are the stars. _I’ll make sure you’re never alone._

_**There was a star riding through the clouds** _  
_**one night, and I said to the star** _  
_**“Consume me.”** _

**Pella, Iowa**

Louis is going to fuck Harry up. Permanently, like a scar, like the time Harry leaned his hand on the stove, the blistering heat burning up his arm and into his chest and he felt nothing but the pain of fire creeping under him. Louis is going to tear him apart and Louis is going to destroy him and Louis is glass cutting along his skin and Louis is going to watch his blood pour out like every single fucking word he wants to say but can’t.

Because after all of this, Harry is going to be fucked up and Louis is going to be left with a faint smile on his face, knowing what he’s done.

“Harry?” Louis is sitting on a ledge, swinging his feet back and forth, his toes just grazing the water below. It sends ripples across the lake, expanding down into the clear water. He turns his head to look at Harry, the sunlight just catching his eyes. “What are you doing just standing there?”

That’s a good question. “Nothing.” Harry leans against the trees, the leaves shadowing over the grass. “You were taking a long time to piss. I thought you had been eaten by a wild animal, or something.”

“Or something.” Louis throws his head back, his laughter ringing against the otherwise silent forest, the lake seems to ripple with his sound. “Maybe I just wanted to stop and smell the roses.”

“I hope you know there are no roses to smell out here.” The bark is digging into his back. “Just some bugs. And some rabid racoons. Maybe even a grizzly bear.”

“You’ll protect me, won’t you?” Louis smirks, and it’s only then that Harry notices the cigarette in between Louis’s two fingers. He takes a long drag of it and looks towards the lake, the dark smoke contradicting his pink lips. Harry doesn’t think about how they felt on his own.

Harry digs his hands into his thighs. “I’m not sure how well I’d fare against a bear.”

Louis smiles around his cigarette, raising an eyebrow at Harry. “Fine. I’ll give you an ultimatum.” He stands up, brushing the dirt off his pants before throwing his cigarette into the water, the smoke trailing in the air. He leans into Harry, until Harry’s head is against the tree, and their eyes interlocking. “It’s me or you. Sacrifice yourself to the bear to save me, or let the bear maul me. Tear me into shreds. No more Louis.”

A world with no more Louis sounds very lonely. “Of course I’d sacrifice myself. But you have to promise to live on my legacy. Tell my mum what a brave hero I was, and all that jazz.” Louis is very close to him, if he were to just lean a bit forward —

“Wow.” Louis tugs on the hem at the bottom of Harry’s shirt, until his hands move their way under and Harry can feel the calluses on Louis’s hands. “You truly are my knight in shining armor. All strong and tall and handsome — ”

“You may want to stop there.” Harry pretends he doesn’t feel the way Louis’s fingers curl into his ribs, how he’s leaving little, crescent shaped nail marks into his skin. “You’re feeding my ego.”

“Your admittedly very fragile ego.” Louis’s hands reach under Harry’s armpits, shucking his shirt up. “You should take off your clothes.”

“I should?”

“You should.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because when have you said no to me before?” Louis grins and pulls Harry’s shirt over his head, his hair falling over his shoulder as the wind carries it. Louis’s hands run down the span of Harry’s arms, his shoulders, down to his torso. Harry can feel his whole body flush as Louis’s fingers move down, his breath hitching as his fingers dip into the waistband of his jeans.

“We should take these off, too.” Louis says, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face as his hand moves to the button of Harry’s jeans, just a small way between his thickening cock trapped in his briefs. His finger pops the button off, and his other hand moves to the zipper, sliding down, teasing, Harry’s mind dizzying from the heat of Louis’s touches, how he wants more and more.

“How erotic,” Harry tries to joke, but it sounds strained, his voice hoarse and gasping for air. He bites his lip and wills his dick to calm down, to stop acting like a thirteen year old who just discovered what porn is.

“It’s not _that_ erotic.” Louis smirks and dips his hand lower, not quite holding Harry the way he wants him to. His voice goes high and innocent, flighty almost, delicate like a bird, his eyelashes fluttering over his cheekbones like wings. “I’m just unzipping your jeans.”

Harry throws his head back, because _fuck_ if Louis isn’t playing with him. “Okay, so it’s like,” he gasps as Louis cups him through his briefs, the small smile playing on Louis’s lips grows.

“It’s like what, Harry?” Louis eyes are too wide and his voice is too high and his face too pure for doing what he’s doing to Harry. Harry knows he’s not innocent, knows that behind his eyes there are constellations and stars Harry can’t understand, but. Harry just wants to ruin him, take him right then and there until he can’t have that stupid smile on his face, that he’s left with only the word _Harry_ gasping from his pink lips.

He squeezes harder against Harry’s cock, Harry biting back a moan because no, he’s not giving Louis the satisfaction of doing this to him. Harry wants to be the one person who can make Louis do what he wants.

He spins them around in one fluid motion, pinning Louis up against the tree and holding both of Louis’s wrists above their heads. He leans in closer, pushing his leg between Louis’s thighs and knocks their foreheads together, the air between them becoming hotter with each passing moment. Harry thinks he can almost see the sparks, but then again, maybe he’s imagining things.

Louis is squirming underneath him, the bark probably scraping his back and head. His wrists are struggling in Harry’s grasp, his eyes hooded as his breath lets out little pants of _HarryHarryHarry_ and he looks so very lovely breathing out Harry’s name. It takes everything in Harry to not wreck him right there, to not tear him open and lick up every sound he makes and to not feel Louis’s skin against his, how hot he’ll be, how good he’ll be for Harry.

Harry rucks up Louis’s shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it pool in the dirt with Harry’s. His hands run over Louis’s bare collarbones, his head spinning and whirling as he whispers against his mouth. “Louis.” His voice is more solid than he feels. “Louis, do you know what you do to me?”

God, sometimes Harry doesn’t even understand what Louis does to him.

Harry doesn’t even wait for an answer, just shoves Louis’s jeans down his legs, letting the material scratch his skin. Harry needs this, needs Louis, needs him like he needs air to breathe and blood in his veins and this is going to fuck Harry up, Louis fucks Harry up, but.

He needs this.

Louis scrambles to push his jeans past his feet, mumbling against Harry’s mouth. “Harry, I — ”

He doesn’t manage to finish. Harry loosens his grip on Louis’s wrists just enough for him to be able to slip out underneath him, standing at the ledge with his cheeks flushed and wrists turning the faintest shade of purple. If Harry looks close enough, he thinks he can see Louis’s hands shaking.

But. He’s still so fucking beautiful. The sun is shining down on his tan skin, eyes illuminating off of it. His hair is lighter, his face is shining with the slightest layer of sweat, the gentle slope of his waist curves out to his hips and he’s everything Harry has ever wanted.

And he jumps into the water.

It’s not like it’s a long jump, only a couple feet, and the water is deep enough to not cause Louis to like, _die_. But he just _jumped_ , threw his briefs at Harry and dove right in, leaving Harry standing with Louis’s briefs in his hands and a massive hard-on.

Which. Okay.

Harry follows, because he would probably jump off a cliff if Louis told him to — that’s not necessarily healthy, but then again, when has Louis ever been healthy for him — and throws his briefs off with the rest of his clothes, diving into the water.

The water is warm, the afternoon sun beating down on it, and it feels vaguely like when he was a child, diving into the pool with his mum and Gemma. Harry smiles at the familiarity, coming back to the surface, his hair resting on his shoulders. The water is empty, not a person in sight, and it’s almost eerie.

“I’d let you kiss me.” Harry jumps in his own skin, turning to look at Louis. His hair is stuck to his forehead, and he can see the slight tremor in his hands. “If you want.”

Louis sounds so entirely not Louis. He sounds unsteady, uncertain. He looks so young, vulnerable and shuddering and he looks like he needs help. This is the smallest Harry has ever seen Louis, looking like he’s trying to make himself smaller and smaller until he disappears. Harry just wants to go up and hold him, make him stable and safe and make him _Harry’s._

So. He does. Harry pulls Louis’s arms to him, crashing their lips together. It’s just as intense as last time, the air crackling between them, so hot and thick that it causes Harry’s mind to spin.

But, maybe that’s just Louis’s affect on him.

Louis wraps his bare legs around Harry’s naked waist, pulling them closer than before. His hands are running through Harry’s curls, pulling at it and tugging them, and the air is getting hot hot hot and Harry can’t breathe.

A choked noise comes from the back of Harry’s throat as their cocks rub against each other. Louis whimpers high, and it’s sound that Harry wants to hear every night before he goes to bed and every morning when he wakes up. Louis breaks the kiss and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, biting down at the skin to muffle his noises.

“You’re so lovely.” Harry mumbles out against his throat, leaving marks along the tan skin. “So, so lovely.” Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore, just that he’s biting down at the point where Louis’s neck meets his shoulder and Louis is gasping against him. “So fucking lovely.”

Louis doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he wraps a hand around Harry’s cock, his small hand not quite being able to wrap around the base. Harry’s hip jerk to his touch, fucking up into Louis’s hand and sucking harder on his neck, purple bruises beginning to blossom into messy patterns on his skin.

Louis pumps teasing and slow, pulling Harry along and letting him want him, _need_ him. He thumbs at the tip, running his hand over his cock steady and unhurried, the exact opposite of what either of them want.

“God, _fuck_ ,” Harry nearly growls against his skin, his hand wrapping over Louis’s and his cock, pumping them both fast and harsh and _Harry fucking needs this, he needs Louis, he needs his air and his lungs and his mind and everything everything everything._

“It wasn’t,” Louis pants against Harry’s shoulder, a broken cry escaping his mouth. “It wasn’t meant to turn out like this.” He shoves his fingers deeper into Harry’s scalp, his feet digging into the small of Harry’s back.

Harry thinks it may hurt later, but that doesn’t matter right now.

“Like what?” Harry whispers into Louis’s ear. He trails his other hand to the curve of Louis’s arse, squeezing the flesh, fucking lavishing in the way Louis arches into his touch. “Like what, Louis?”

“ _This_.” Louis cries out as Harry runs a finger down his crack, one of the rings just brushing over Louis’s hole. “You and me. What this is. What we’re doing.”

“And what are we?” Harry whispers against Louis’s ear, but Harry is beginning to think neither of them really know. He knows it’s not normal, how Louis is shaking in his arms and how it feels like the world is on fire when they kiss and the pain in his chest is growing heavier with each passing day and he never wants to let go.

“Louis.” Harry’s hand leaves Louis’s body and cups his face with his hand, pulling him up and forcing him to look Harry into his eyes. Harry still audibly gasps when he looks at him, because fuck if he’s not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His fingers stroke along the cut of Louis’s cheekbones, their lips brush against one another’s as he whispers, “Louis, I — ”

_I love you_ are stupid fucking words that stick on Harry’s lips and glue them shut, forever lingering but never coming apart and Harry wants to tell them to Louis until it’s all he hears and it’s consuming him entirely just how Louis consumes him and maybe Louis will understand then, but.

There is a splash of water on his face, followed by the feeling of Louis’s ankled unhooking themselves around Harry’s back. He feels empty, like there should have always been something there, a piece of him gone.

“Come on, Harry!” Louis is already halfway to the shore, yelling over his shoulder. When did that happen. “The day is young and so are we!”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything.

_**I drink to make people more interesting.** _

**Route 80, Iowa**

Gas station liquor burns as it runs down his throat, scalding the edges, his lungs on fire as he takes another sip. It hurts, it hurts like the way Louis smiles at him from the passenger seat, like the feeling of their mouths when they collide, how it feels like it should be a rose but instead Harry is getting pricked by every thorn Louis holds in his hands.

Louis burns more than hard liquor under his hands, his shirt riding up as Harry digs his fingers into his spine, slipping his hand into the waistband of his jeans. Louis still lets out a breathless little gasp every time Harry runs his hands over the span of his thighs, straddling Harry’s legs, squeezing them tighter, trapping Harry like a vice.

_You smell like daisies._ Louis whispers against Harry’s mouth, leaning his forehead to rest on his. _You smell like daisies and roses and you’re very, very soft, like a blanket. I wonder if you would make a good blanket. Are you a good cuddler? I bet you are, Mister Harry —_

_Louis._ Harry chuckles into Louis’s neck, biting down on the skin, sucking over the mark. _Louis, you’re drunk._

Louis giggles into Harry’s cheek, rolling his head back as he sniffles, the flush of red creeping up his neck. _No, no, Mister Harry._ Louis pinches Harry’s cheeks together, and Harry feels his lips curl up. _You’d make a fantastic blanket. Maybe even a better pillow, and I bet you wouldn’t even mind if I drooled on you._

_I wouldn’t mind anything with you._

Louis’s eyes flicker up like the stars, his smile brighter than them. _Why are you so very lovely, Mister Harry? You’re too nice to me. I wouldn’t be very nice to me._

Harry feels Louis’s hand shake on his cheeks, pulls them down to steady him. Harry has him, Harry has the hold on Louis, and he knows he can crack at any moment, snap like the pop of fireworks, destroying everything and anyone around him, but.

_I’m not that nice. I forget to do my laundry sometimes, and I end up wearing the same briefs for a few days in a row. Disgusting, really. And I eat pizza and leave the crusts. How unfair of me to do that._

Louis pouts and leans into Harry’s neck, and Harry can feel the flutter of Louis’s eyelashes against his skin. Harry thinks if he focuses hard enough, he can feel Louis’s lips brushing over his veins.

_Everybody’s got their flaws, Mister Harry._ Louis looks up from Harry’s neck, and he looks like he’s searching for something in Harry’s eyes. Harry wants to give him everything he has, everything he has ever wanted. Harry wants to look into Louis’s eyes and see love instead of emptiness.

_And what’s your flaw, Louis?_

Louis brushes his fingers over Harry’s jaw, curving up into his cheekbones as if he were something special. Harry blends into walls and Louis paints over them. Harry will wake up ten years from now and forget his own name but he knows the word Louis will still be on his lips. Louis is the dirt in Harry’s lungs and Harry can’t breathe.

Harry is nothing and Louis is everything.

_I have a lot of flaws, Mister Harry. But you are by far the worse._

_**What if all I am is the broken lyrics** _  
_**of a broken song on a broken record held** _  
_**gently in the broken hands** _  
_**of a broken man?** _

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

One wrong turn and suddenly they find themselves in a run down strip mall in the middle of South fucking Dakota. If Harry didn’t know better, he would have ripped the steering wheel out of Louis’s hands before he could even mutter out the words _Hey Harry, can I drive this time?_

Looking back at it now, he really, really should have.

Louis is at the gas station across the street — attending to some _very important, very secret business, Harry._ He had said it with such a raise of an eyebrow and quirk of his lips that Harry just let him go, because he is tired, and he is uncomfortable, and he is stuck in the back of a truck in South _fucking_ Dakota — he’s still not over the fact that Louis literally drove them into the wrong state, the idiot. Harry is in love with that idiot — and he’s so fed up with being stuck in the little space of the car that he slams the door behind him before shoving his hands into his pockets to walk along the expanse of the strip mall.

It’s empty, like a ghost town, and Harry imagines if he were to kick at one of the walls, the whole building would come collapsing down in a fit of dust. The dim stores are illuminated by yellow, flickering lights, and the faint rustle of the wind are the only things that make it seem as though there could be people inside.

Harry’s ready to turn around and sulk in self pity in the truck, maybe eat a bag of crisps or five, but a blue, neon sign catches his eyes, and he has an idea.

The door rings as he walks in, a flash of red hair popping up from behind the counter followed by the crash of a tower of CD cases falling onto beige tile.

“Oh, shit!” The man behind the counter shouts, bending down to grab the CDs from the floor. Harry is already there, piling them into his arms and handing them over to the man.

“Thanks man,” he says, sprawling the CDs across the counter in a disarrayed fashion; kind of like everything in the store. It’s small, the walls covered from floor to ceiling with shelves of records and posters plastered askewed on the walls. The floors are covered with tables and tables with crates of CDs and tapes, not organized in anyway that Harry can see, misplaced sticky notes labeling Nicki Minaj and The Smiths in the same crate.

The same goes for the man behind the counter. He’s short, red hair sticking up at all sorts of angles and his clothes are mismatched with different patterns and fabrics. If Harry had met him a few months earlier, he could see himself sticking his nose up at him and turning away, probably muttering something about _those free spirited, artsy types_ but he finds himself smiling at the man, who is already smiling back.

The man straightens his back and sticks his hand out over the counter. “Hey, thanks for helping.” Harry takes his hand. It’s a nice grip, firm and reassuring. “My name’s Ed.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Harry shoves his hands back into his pockets. “Harry.”

Ed grins, lazy and relaxed. He scratches his beard. “Well, what brings you to my humble abode?” He motions around the store for added effect, as if he were opening for a Broadway show. And maybe this store is his dream for him. “Looking for some old rock? Smooth jazz? Boyband pop?”

“Actually,” Harry begins, fingering through a stack of CDs. The covers are torn at the corners, revealing clear cases. “Do you mix tapes?”

A smile spreads on Ed’s face. After so long of just seeing Louis’s smile, the kind of smile that breaks hearts, it sends a shockwave to Harry to see a smile so warm. “Do I mix tapes?” Ed laughs. “What are we talking? For your mom? A lonely night? A girlfriend?”

Harry rocks back on his heels, because what _is_ Louis to him. Louis is far from a boyfriend, far from anything, really. “It’s for a friend,” Harry says, and he’s proud of how steady his voice sounds. “A good friend.”

If Harry’s voice shows any sign of uncertainty, Ed doesn’t say anything. “Are we talking about the type of friend you’d get beers with or the type of friend you’d like to fuck?”

The corners of Harry’s lips twitch up. “How about the type of friend you kind of love.”

“Kind of?” Ed grins further, leaning down on his elbows. Harry decides he likes him. “Tell me more.”

Harry wants to laugh, or scream, or maybe both until his lungs give out. “Do you know,” he begins, sucking in a breath, running a hand through his hair so hard, he’s surprised a chunk of hair doesn’t follow. “Do you know what it’s like to be so in love you can’t breathe?”

Ed pushes himself off the counter, walking around it to rummage through various crates, letting out a low whistle. “Well,” he says. “You sound positively fucked.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Harry leans against a box, and prays it doesn’t fall. “One hundred percent fucked. If you were to look up the definition of fucked, I would be there with a broken heart, singing an awful love song by like, Taylor Swift.”

Ed only hums in acknowledgement, taking out an unmarked CD from one of the crates. Harry wonders how he remembers where everything is; he’ll have to ask. “Tell me about them.” Ed looks over one of the boxes he’s holding, grinning. “They must be pretty special.”

“I don’t think I could tell you. You have to see them to know.” Harry lets out a choked laugh, feeling a tightness at the back of his throat. He pushes that away, favors looking at the ceiling, blinks a few times. “Out of everyone in the world, I think they are the most fascinating person I know.”

“Well, Harry.” Ed takes a stack of CDs in his hands, placing them behind a counter before rolling his shoulders back. “You’re not very subtle about it.”

“I know.”

“As a matter of fact, you’re the exact opposite.”

“I know.”

“On a scale from one to _I look at them the way the sun looks at the moon,_ how deep are you?”

“What goes beyond that?”

“Wow. You’re fucked.”

“Truly, unbelievably, fucked.” Harry laughs until his throat runs dry. Then laughs some more.

_**I must give you my thoughts,** _  
_**my mind, my dreams, and you weren’t** _  
_**having any of those.** _

**Route 90, South Dakota**

Louis’s face lights up when he sees it, brighter than all the stars above them, brighter than the moon hanging amongst the dark sky. He clasps it while it still is in Harry’s hands, his hand so small in Harry’s, holding the [tape](http://8tracks.com/annaleeleec/mixtape). Harry bites back a smile at Louis’s reaction, eyes flickering up to his face to Louis’s fingers unknotting the red ribbon Ed had so helpfully given him.

“This for me?” Louis inspects the tape closer, flipping it around in his hand. “You proper romantic. Getting gifts to woo me over.” He smiles up at Harry before turning it over in his hands. “Now, what is it?”

“It’s a tape.” Harry grabs it from Louis’s hands, ignores the way his fingers linger on the calluses. “For music. Songs. All that jazz.”

“I don’t trust your taste in music,” Louis says, plucking it from Harry’s hands to shove it in the car radio regardless. “You don’t like The Backstreet Boys. You like bands like the Arctic Polar Bears, or something. Some pretentious hipster complex going on.”

Harry shrugs and dispenses the tape from the radio. “Fine, if you’re going to be so — ”

“Hey, now.” Louis smiles at him, and if Harry looks close enough, he thinks he saw Louis wink. “I want to at least see your shitty taste in music, so I can promptly make fun of your fake deep, tortured soul.”

The [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoaT6WXUV_M) comes through as static for a few seconds before breaking through, the noise fuzzy and distorted, as if cotton balls were stuffed into the speakers. Louis’s eyebrows furrow for a few moments, his grin falling from his face before creeping back up, laughing out the window and into the night.

“You _would_ choose this song.” Louis stares at the speakers before giggling some more, and Harry wants to kiss his smile away until he understands what he’s trying to say with the music, what he’s trying to say because whenever he tries to form words they get caught on his lips and choked on his tongue until he can’t say them anymore. “You would choose the most recognizable love song of like, the decade.”

“It’s loved for a reason.” Harry knows Louis can feel his gaze on him, never moving an inch from the shape of his lips, the crinkles from his eyes. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to stop looking at Louis.

Louis sighs and leans on Harry’s shoulder, his head cradled in the slope of Harry’s neck. “Cute song, I’ll give you that.” Harry can feel his smile on his skin. “Cheesy, and a bit dumb, but. Cute.”

“I try.” Harry leans into Louis’s hair, letting the music ring around them, the faint sound of grasshoppers can be heard if he listens close enough. “I’m a proper romantic.”

“I had a boyfriend sing this to me, once.” Harry feels a flare of something in his stomach. It’s not the flare he gets when Louis’s lips brush against his, or when his hands touch the small of Louis’s back. He knows this feeling, knows that he doesn’t want Louis to say the word boyfriend without it being _this is my boyfriend, Harry._ “Then again, his pet name for me was Bunbuns, so that may have been a sign for me to get out.”

“Bunbuns.” Harry tries to conceal his chuckle as a cough, but he only laughs further, his breath against Louis’s hair. “I think I could beat him with pet names, like.” Harry leans back, looks at Louis with mock seriousness, eyebrows drawn. “I think you’d make a good Honey Bunny.”

Louis pinches one of Harry’s cheeks, the blood rushing to the surface. “Oh, Cupcake.” Louis pouts against Harry’s chest, his eyes opening up and smiling at Harry, eyelashes fanning over cheekbones. “You’re just adorable.”

“Not as cute as my Boobear.” It would be comical how much Harry isn’t joking. He wonders if Louis is. “Nobody can be compared to you.”

“Oh, Cutie Pie.” Louis leans further into Harry’s space, foreheads almost touching. “Don’t be modest. Your smile just makes my day.”

Harry’s not joking. Not the slightest. “Please, Love Muffin,” Harry runs his hand down Louis’s side to curve around his hip, concealing a smile when he feels Louis shiver under his arm. “Your eyes could put the ocean to shame.”

Louis throws his head back and laughs, exposing the column of his throat. Harry kind of wants to kiss it. “Peachy Pie,” Louis grins. “Your laugh is the music to my ears.”

“Oh, Snookums,” Harry begins, hand running down to the place he really wants to hold. He sees the flush running up Louis’s cheek, prompting him to hold him tighter, feeling his bum under his hands. “Your bum is — ”

“Oh my god,” Louis giggles, squirming out of Harry’s grasp to curl in the passenger’s seat, his feet landing on the dashboard. If they were together, and Harry wasn’t so scared, he would crawl over him and kiss him until he’s gasping _Harry._ “I thought we were having a civil conversation, and then you pull the bum card on me — ”

“I thought we were being adorable.” Harry plays with one of Louis’s feet on the dashboard, nearly getting kicked in the face. “I mean, do you want me to call you something boring? Honey? Babe? Love?”

Louis stares at Harry for a second, forever searching for something and Harry wants to give it to him, give everything he has, take him right there and make Louis know that Harry would do anything for him to see what he wants and he wants Louis to see that sometimes Harry can’t breathe when he’s around him, and that everything in his life fades away when he hears him laugh, and that Harry wishes he had enough in him to give to Louis, but whenever Louis laughs it is Harry who is out of breath.

Louis leans forward, until his mouth is tickling Harry’s ear, his breath hot down Harry’s spine.

“I like Love.”

_**There was nowhere to go** _  
_**but everywhere.** _

**Route 20, Nebraska**

Harry knows he’s not much of anything, that ten or twenty years from now, Louis won’t remember this time they had together. He knows that he will just be another faceless person in Louis’s life and he knows that. He knows he is not worth remembering, but.

These nights where they lay down side by side, looking at the moon pass from one side of the sky to the other, with their hands interlocked between them. Harry allows himself to have these nights, these nights where he can say anything to Louis and Louis will giggle at his ridiculous jokes and Louis will roll his eyes and Louis will kiss him until his lips are bleeding and _LouisLouisLouis._

Louis laughs into the night, and Harry thinks he can hear the sky smile.

_**You gave me everything you had** _  
_**and I offered you what was left of me.** _

**Somewhere Lost On Route 71, Nebraska**

“ _Oh, the truck doesn’t need gas,_ he said.” Harry slams the passenger door — slams it unnecessarily hard, he knows, too dramatic. It sends vibrations over the truck, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if it left an indentation on the car. “ _We’ll be fine,_ he said.”

“Harry.” Louis’s voice is calm, steady, which how can he be calm when he drove them right into a backroad in fucking Nebraska. He says, in what should be a soothing voice, but it comes across more harsh, “Harry, calm down.”

Harry turns around and throws his arms in the air — maybe a bit hysterical — but they are in the middle of who knows where, it’s dark outside, the moon and stars seem to be laughing at him, and everything seems to quiet and peaceful for how Harry feels.

“Calm down?” Harry shouts, voice echoing over the flat land, the brush of grass the only thing answering him. “You want me to _calm down?_ We’re stuck in the middle of fuck knows where, and you’re acting like it’s nothing — ”

“Because it is.” Louis laughs, leaning on the truck as he watches Harry pace. Harry wants to wipe the smile off his face, wants to watch him finally do something other than _fucking_ smile. “Maybe this could be a nice break. We can take in nature, be one with our inner souls. Maybe we can do some yoga, if you want — ”

“How are you joking around?” Harry yells, feels his skull pound. He kicks at the ground, the gravel blowing up into dust after his foot, disappearing into the air. “We’re stuck here! We’re stuck here, and we’re not going to get help, and it’s all because of — ”

“Me?” Louis finishes his sentence, ends it with an edge to his voice, getting louder along with Harry’s. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Harry! It’s not like I wave a magical wand and start the car like new.”

Harry flares his nostrils and kicks harder at the ground. He knows he’s being dramatic, he knows that Louis isn’t having any of this. But. “Fuck, Louis,” he mutters at his feet. “Yeah, I do think this is your fault. Because you’re the one who wanted to take the fucking _scenic route,_ you’re the one who wanted to go fucking drive, you’re the one who didn’t fill the gas, you — ”

“I get it,” Louis says between his teeth, and Harry can see his fists clench at his sides, knuckles whitening over his knuckles. “You’re mad, but don’t take it out on me.”

“Don’t take it out on you?” Harry nearly screeches at that, because. “You are the one who’s been fucking around with me, being all stupid and mysterious and you have this sort of, like, _let’s fuck around with Harry’s emotions_ complex.”

Harry doesn’t know where this is coming from, doesn’t know why he’s saying this because he’s been nothing but infatuated with Louis since he laid eyes on him on that park bench in New York, and he’s never felt this tightening in his chest, never looked at Louis and thought hurt, but Louis flinches at his words, so very slightly, and.

Louis doesn’t say anything. He stands. And watches.

“And you know what else?” Harry continues, and he’s not sure what he’s saying, words spilling out of him in a rush, pouring out like a waterfall. “You keep trying to pull me along and pretend you don’t feel anything. But guess what, Louis?”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything when Harry looks at him with fire in his eyes, doesn’t say anything as Harry crowds him against the door of the truck, doesn’t say anything when Harry knocks his forehead against his, forcing him to look up at Harry between long eyelashes and this would be so much easier if Louis didn’t have such a hold, if he didn’t smile and Harry didn’t feel the need to kiss his lips insane.

“Sometimes you don’t feel like a fucking human.” Harry whispers against his mouth, their lips brushing against each other. His breath is hot against Louis. “You’re _acid._ You burn through people and then wonder why you’re so alone.”

Harry thinks he doesn’t mind burning for him.

Louis clenches his jaw, tilting his chin up at Harry. “Are you about done?” His voice is cold and emotionless and Harry just wants him to _take it._

“I’m not done.” He feels his hand trail up Louis’s body, stopping at his jaw. He looks into Louis’s eyes, and it still startles him, sometimes, how full and empty they can look at the same time. “I’m not fucking done. It’s my turn to burn you.” Dramatic, he knows.

He pulls Louis up, so he’s standing on his toes, and crashes their lips into each other’s like tidal waves. Fast and harsh and sudden, teeth clacking and biting and low moans. He feels Louis’s hands tighten in his shirt, tugging him down to meet in the middle, their saliva messy between their lips. Always messy.

“Harry,” Louis gasps as Harry trails his mouth down Louis’s throat, biting at his neck. Harry’s breaths are heavy against Louis’s skin, breathing in everything he can. Louis scratches at Harry’s arms. “Harry, Harry.”

It’s when Louis shouts _get off_ that Harry pushes himself away, if only by a few inches. The air between them is still being exchanged, intoxicatedly hot, Harry’s head is dizzy with the heat.

Louis’s mouth is flushed red, his eyes a shade darker than they usually are, the color of the sky right before the sun falls. Inky blue, almost black. He gasps for a breath, gaze meeting Harry’s. “What the fuck was that?”

Harry leans both his arms on either side of Louis’s head, bracketing him in. He groans, punching at the hard metal of the car, feels how Louis jolts at the sound of metal against his fist. “Why do you always pretend to not feel anything?” He yells, Louis flinching with their close proximity. “You have these, like, fucking walls surrounding every side of you — ”

“I don’t have walls,” Louis says, slamming his head against the car. It sounds like it hurts, Harry wants to kiss the back of his head until he’s better, and it’s frustrating that even now, Louis has Harry completely. “That’s like, the most overused metaphor in the book. At least have some imagination.”

“Well, that’s what they are.” Harry’s nostrils flare out, breathing more heavily than he was before, taking Louis’s air. “Your walls. They cover you.” Harry drops his head into Louis’s shoulder, nuzzling the dip of his collarbones. He whispers, so soft he doesn’t know if Louis can hear, “You don’t let anyone see you.”

“You see me all the time,” Louis whispers. His hands go out to tug at Harry’s curls. “You’re the only person I let see me.”

Harry’s knees almost go out, ready to take everything Louis is willing to give right there, take his heart, his lungs, his everything. He’s stronger than that. He rests his forehead on Louis’s, nudging their noses together so Louis has nowhere to look but at Harry. “Not the way I want to. I want the parts of you that you refuse to give.”

“I’m sorry I’m so disappointing,” Louis says, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, rubbing at his scalp. Harry’s body lurches forward, wants Louis’s fingers _everywhere._

“Jesus, Louis,” Harry says. God, he wants to touch everything in front of him, wants to feel the elegant dip of his hipbones or his thighs wrapped around him, all warm and strong. “You have me wrapped around your little finger.”

Louis lets out a hot laugh, just one short huff. “Everybody is.”

Harry knows that, knows that when people look at Louis in the streets, knows that Louis belongs to everyone and anyone who would have him. He feels a burning sensation deep in his stomach, wants to make Louis only his, wants to see him only being his as they walk down the streets, wants to see the stares of people as they see someone as fascinating as Louis walk around with Harry tugging his arms, laughing. They love to laugh.

“But this,” Harry murmurs, taking Louis’s lip between his teeth and tugging, ever so slight. “This is different.”

“Just a bit.” Louis licks his lips, gasping for Harry’s mouth as he pulls away. “Take me.”

Harry does.

He pulls them together, scorching air surrounding them as their lips collide. Louis opens his mouth up, Harry rolling them together for one sweet moment before he fucks his tongue in and out, Louis whimpering into his mouth, and Harry wants to hear that whimper when he’s inside of him, letting the words _Harry_ past his lips.

Because if Louis is allowing this, Harry is going to take everything he can.

“In the back,” Harry mutters against Louis’s lips. He hardly knows what he’s saying. “Get in the back, get in the back, please _fuck,_ get in the back.”

They both clamour their way into the trunk, Harry always leaving one hand somewhere on Louis’s body, not able to let go completely. Louis’s skin is burning up underneath him, burning as they both sit up in the back, burning as Louis sits in Harry’s lap, burning as Louis straddles one leg on either side of Harry’s hips as their lips come to one another.

Louis pushes Harry’s hair behind his ears as Harry runs a hand down Louis’s body, stopping at his clothed cock. Louis keens at that, rolling his hips up for something more, something that he _needs._

Harry smiles in between kisses, hand reach down to cup at harder. “You’re hard for me.” Louis tugs Harry in for another kiss, but Harry stays put, grasping harsher into his pants. “You’re hard for me and only me.”

Louis runs a hand down Harry’s chest until he reaches Harry’s erection, cupping it with equal grip. “Could say the same for you, Styles.”

Harry takes both of Louis’s hands between their chests, pinning them together as he sits up, both of them sat down, Louis in Harry’s lap. He leans into Louis’s neck, biting down, feels how Louis cries out, jerking up into his hand. Harry smiles, licks at the spot he bit as blood rushes to the surface, a bruise already forming. He whispers against his skin, “Tonight, you’re all mine.”

That makes Louis throw his head back, whispering a faint _please._ His skin is already shining with a thin layer of sweat, eyes dark and lips bruised. And Harry wants to do everything with this boy.

There is something that rings in the back of Harry’s mind, a faint voice so quiet, Harry may be imagining it. He knows this is the only night where Louis will be completely his, this is the only time where Louis is letting him do whatever, letting him take every bit until there is nothing left of him. He shakes his head to himself, pushing that thought out of his mind in favor of hiking Louis’s shirt up to his armpits, his hand roaming across his ribcage, the skin pulled across the bones.

“Take this off.” Harry pulls harder at the shirt until Louis raises his arms, Harry discarding the shirt somewhere amongst the mess of the blankets. They’ll find it later, it’s fine.

Louis is so fucking lovely, is the thing. He is so lovely sitting in Harry’s lap, tan skin shining, his sweat in the curve of his collarbones. The moon reflects off his body, making Louis look almost iridescent in the light, nearly glowing like a fucking star. There’s the sharp contrast of Harry’s necklace, Harry’s cross necklace tangled in the dip of Louis’s throat. Harry’s breath hitches at that, reaches out to grab it, loves how it looks against the marks on Louis’s throats, loves the feeling of the tightness in his pants getting that much more prominent.

“You’re wearing my necklace,” Harry says over his skin, biting down and sucking it into his mouth. His neck is going to be ruined tomorrow, covered with bruises and marks and Harry wants to take a picture, remember that he’s the one who did that to Louis.

Louis whimpers and his hands come to tug at Harry’s shirt, only to be thrown to the side. “I like it,” is all he says, his voice raspy and hoarse as if he’s already been fucked, and Harry’s hip stutter at that, rocking Louis in his lap.

“What do you like about it?” Harry mutters into Louis’s skin, hands tightening around his hold on the dip of Louis’s waist.

“I like it because it’s yours,” Louis whispers, fingers digging into Harry’s arms. Harry thinks he might be drawing blood with his sharp, little nails. “I think I might like being yours.”

Harry rocks his hips up again, feeling his erection rub against Louis’s clothes bum, wants the layers between them gone. Louis’s head comes to rest on Harry’s shoulder, panting against his skin. Harry’s hands run up the span of Louis’s body, so small underneath his hands. He thinks he may be able to wrap his hand around Louis’s waist, the curve of it so elegant and gentle, such a contrast to everything else about him. His hands wash over Louis’s chest, rubbing over Louis’s nipples. Louis visibly shivers, his hands digging into Harry’s shoulders as he says, small and quiet and needy.

_Please._

Harry could have came right there, like a teenager in his own pants. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Louis,” Harry breathes, hands reaching down to unbutton Louis’s jeans, finger getting caught on the zipper. “Up, up, up,” Harry says with a hint of desperation.

_He needs this, he needs this, he needs this._

Louis obeys, blushing with how fast he follows Harry’s direction’ Harry feels his own expression soften as Louis sits back down in his lap, waiting for Harry to tell him what to do, and Louis grins down at him, his smile warm and soft and _home._

“God,” Harry swallows, bending down until his mouth rests on one of Louis’s nipples, sucking it into his mouth, Louis gasping and tugging at his hair. Louis squirms, breathing out _HarryHarryHarry,_ his hands tangling in Harry’s curls. Harry stills him, pressing his hands down on his hips.

“You’re all I want, Louis,” Harry says against his skin, biting down onto the other nipple. He wants Louis to be able to see him for days, see every mark and bruise, every time he thought he wanted to make Louis _his_. “You know that?”

Louis pulls him up his body until Harry slots their lips together. His hands run down Harry’s body, tugging at the waistband of his jeans.

“And you’re all I have, Harry.” Louis’s voice comes out cracked, fucked out. Harry should give him a reason to make it sound like that.

Harry shakes his head and shucks his own jeans off, leaving them both in their briefs. He rubs their covered cocks together, Harry groaning at the contact.

“Tell me what you want.” Harry rubs them against each other for emphasis, living for the gasp Louis breathes out with the contact. “Tell me what you need.”

Louis shakes his head, hair dripping in sweat. His hand comes to be tangled in the cross necklace, tugging at the charm. “You know what I want.” Louis tries to sound confident, but his voice is wavering and shaking, like the shattering of glass, but. It’s something Harry can help him with. He can make him stable, can try.

Harry mouths over his nipple, licking at the nub. Louis arches up to that, and Harry mutters against it. “I want to hear you say it.”

Louis makes a high pitched, whining noise. “I want you inside of me.” His eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones, so lovely it hurts. “I want your mouth, I want your cock, I want everything with you. I want _you_.”

Harry inhales, a quick draw of a breath, before he pulls down both of their briefs, throwing them off to the side. He looks up at Louis, completely bare for him, his cock laying on the inside of his thigh. His hip bones are protruding, pulling tight at his skin. Harry runs his finger over the dip of it, taking his cock into his hand and pumps it, loving the noises that escape Louis’s mouth.

“Please, please, please,” Louis says, voice going up a couple octaves. His hair falls into his eyes, messy. He moves in Harry’s lap, looking for a source of friction. “I need your fingers, I need you, _I need you_.”

“Please tell me you have stuff,” Harry groans against his chest, sucking a bruise onto the skin. It already begins to purple under Harry’s mouth. “Please, God, Louis. Tell me you have something.”

Louis nods, his hands grabbing something to the side and pulling out a plastic bag, handing a bottle of lube to Harry. “Harry,” Louis whines, rutting his bum against Harry’s cock. It slips through Louis’s crack, taking everything in Harry to not jolt forward into Louis right there, take Louis as his, feel him around him. He can wait. He’s waited long enough.

Harry opens the bottle, rubbing lube over two of his fingers before running one over the rim of Louis’s hole. He watches, looks up at Louis jolts at just the touch of Harry, whining some more, skin in a sheen with sweat.

“Tell me,” Harry says, sucking another bruise against Louis’s chest. “Tell me how much you want it.”

Louis pulls at Harry’s curls, furrowing his eyebrows as he grinds against Harry. “God, I want it so bad,” he whispers against the warm air, his voice weak and carrying through the wind. “I want you, I want your cock in me, I want you pounding inside of me, I want you to make me scream your name, I want — ”

A choked whimper escapes his lips as Harry sinks a finger into him, letting his head rest in the crook of Harry’s shoulder, little breaths of _God, fuck, holy_ as it sinks further, deeper. Harry grits his teeth and furrows his eyebrows, stopping when he reaches the second knuckle because Louis is so tight, so hot around just this one finger, he can’t imagine fitting his whole cock in his little hole.

He rubs Louis’s hip bone. “This okay?”

Louis’s eyes are shut as he nods, his legs squeezing the sides of Harry’s hips tighter than before. “God, it’s so okay. So good.”

Harry takes this as encouragement, mesmerized as he watches his finger sinking further, until the cold metal of his ring rests against Louis’s rim. He raises an eyebrow, waiting until Louis starts riding his finger to start pumping it in and out, his walls slick around him.

Louis moans, biting against Harry’s neck as he rides his finger. “Please, please,” Louis whines, meeting Harry’s finger as it fucks in and out. “Please, another one. I need another one.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry nods against hair. “I have you.”

He really, really does.

Harry’s second finger slips in with the first, rubbing against his walls, trying to find that sweet spot that will really make Louis moan. Not that he’s not already, Louis arching into Harry’s chest with every stroke, his hole clenching down onto Harry’s rings, little _HarryHarryHarry’s_ leaving his lips with every pump.

Louis is the loveliest thing Harry has ever had the honor of seeing. Him, panting Harry’s name as his fingers enter him. Louis’s hands digging into Harry’s shoulders, his hair, pulling and tugging and the smell of sweat running down their bodies. Louis squirming, thrashing as Harry hits his prostate, him screaming as Harry rubs over it.

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Harry whispers, stroking Louis’s hair to the side to kiss his forehead. He pushes Louis’s hips down into his lap with his free hand. “Now, stay still.”

Louis’s face scrunches up, letting out a cry as Harry’s fingers rub at his prostate. Not going anywhere, just stroking the nub of nerves, sending shock waves up his body.

“God,” Louis says, voice broken. “Your fingers are so fucking big.” He lulls his head to the side, eyes clenching as Harry jabs at his walls on a particularly harsh thrust.

Harry watches as his fingers disappear into Louis’s tight body, disappearing into the heat. He pulls them out in one quick motion, a whine leaving Louis’s throat as his hole clenches around nothing.

“Harry,” Louis pants into the air, pushing his hips down to grind on Harry’s cock. “Harry, I need you, God, I fucking need you.”

“You’re fine, baby.” _Baby._ He pours lube over a third finger, positions them over Louis. “I’m going to add a third finger now, alright? Going to fill you up so good, you’re going to be so full of me, of my fingers. You’re going to love it.”

He follows through with his promise, pressing three of his fingers to Louis’s rim. His hole stretches around him, his walls resisting Harry’s push. Louis gasps, throwing his head to the air and inhales, pressing into Harry’s fingers.

“Harry!” His fingers fully in Louis, he gives him a moment to adjust to the stretch. Louis nods, tugging on Harry’s curls. “Please, just _move._ ”

Harry pulls back the slightest bit, afraid to hurt Louis. He doesn’t look like it though, chest flushed and mouth open in a permanent gasp, making choked whimpers whenever Harry hits his prostate.

“You want to know something?” Harry asks, leaning down to brush his lips over Louis’s ear, his breath tickling. “You utterly consume me. Everything about you, I can’t stop thinking about. You are all that’s on my mind, you are _everything_.”

He doesn’t know what he’s really saying, just that Louis shakes his head and hides his face in Harry’s shoulder as he rides up Harry’s fingers.

“It hurts sometimes, you know.” Harry pushes his fingers up harder, Louis’s cries muffled in his skin. “When I look at you, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stop.”

Louis’s chest is heaving, his hips moving to Harry’s fingers. “I’m sorry.” He hides his face further. “You don’t deserve that.”

Harry lets his fingers slide out of Louis, wiping the lube on the blankets. He rubs lube over his cock, the vein standing out against the skin, thrusting up into his hand as he opens a condom, wrapping it around his cock.

“Louis?” He whispers, stroking the side of Louis’s face. “You okay, baby?”

Louis nods, face still hidden in Harry’s shoulder. “Please, I want you inside of me. Please, please, _please._ ”

“I’m gonna give you what you want, baby. Going to give you everything.” Harry bites his lip, leaning over to connect his mouth to Louis’s collarbone, licking at the saltiness. “Louis, I want to look at you. I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”

Louis’s head comes up, wet tears shining on his cheeks. His eyes are wide, hazy and fluttering. Harry kisses them, leading down his cheeks, kissing the tears, until he reaches his mouth, slipping his tongue inside, Louis moaning against his lips.

Louis gets on his knees, leans back a little to position himself over Harry’s cock, grabbing it to sink down, slowly taking Harry in, inch by inch. He gasps as the head pops in his hole, already a tight fit, Louis clenching down on him as he whimpers against Harry’s mouth, letting out little breaths of _ah, ah, ah_ with each passing inch.

“Fuck, baby.” Harry rasps against his mouth, holding onto his hips so tight, leaving finger shaped bruises on the pale skin of his thighs and hip bones. “You’re so tight, so fucking tight on my cock.” He bites down on Louis’s lip, eliciting a gasp from him. as he runs his hands down his body. “I always knew you’d look lovely like this.” He clenches his jaw, gripping on tighter to resist the urge to just fuck up into Louis, to make his walls bruise and ache from the sting of it.

Louis’s thighs squeeze around him tighter, pulling them chest to chest as Harry’s hips press against Louis’s arse. “Oh, God,” Louis whimpers, scratching at Harry’s back, drawing blood. “You’re so fucking big, so, so big. You fill me up so good.”

Harry’s hips roll back the slightest bit, gently rocking into Louis, being careful of going too far. “You look so good like this, filled with my cock. Would do this to you everyday if you’d let me, fuck you until you’re a screaming mess, all mine.”

“I’d let you,” Louis whispers against his mouth, and Harry’s hips stutter at that, a whimper escaping Louis’s mouth. He composes himself, his pace remaining the same, the rocking of his hips never going any deeper or faster, just Harry and Louis. Louis and Harry.

Harry wants this forever, the vision of Louis’s hole taking Harry’s cock in, sliding tight and slow, Louis’s face in a beautiful mix of pain and pleasure, mouth opened and silent, eyes looking right into Harry’s.

Harry can tell he’s trying, can tell he’s using every piece of himself to try to ride Harry, try to bounce up and down on his cock, but he’s gasping every time Harry rocks into him the slightest, and he’s using Harry’s shoulders to help, but it must be hard to concentrate when Harry is kissing him like this.

“Please, Harry,” Louis pants against his chest, eyes shut in pleasure. “Please, please. Give it to me harder, make me feel it, make me yours — ”

Harry grips onto his waist, maybe a bit too hard, but he flips them over in one motion, making sure Louis lands softly in a mess of blankets. Louis gasps with the sudden new position, his legs hitched up around Harry’s waist, the position a whole other angle that hits his prostate as Harry is just resting there, rocking against Louis’s bum.

“Anything for you,” he whispers against Louis’s neck, pulling his hips back and falling into a fast rhythm, deep and quick and just pressing against Louis’s prostate with each thrust, Louis’s head falling back with a high moan. “I’d do anything for you, Louis.”

Louis takes it, takes everything Harry is giving him, every thrust and harsh hold and rough bruise and he takes it, whimpering into the air with a sob and a cry.

Harry picks up his pace, skin slapping against skin echoing, little breaths of ah ah ah leaving Louis’s mouth with each thrust. He bites down on Louis’s collarbone and whispers, “I want you to bleed my name.”

Louis clenches down on his cock, head thrown back as he sputters out obscenities and screams. “Jesus, fuck. Harry!” His eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, _please,_ Harry.”

Harry thumbs over his bruised collarbones, hitting his prostate with each deep thrust. “Come on, Louis. I want you to come on my cock. Can you do that for me?”

“I don’t,” Louis pants out, nails scratching down Harry’s back. “I don’t know, _I don’t know_ — ”

White spurts come from Louis’s cock, up his chest and belly, his walls wrapping Harry inside, the grip so tight against Harry. It only sends Harry into more of a frenzy, Louis pulling him further and further in, a trail of fire leading down his cock.

“You’re everything to me.” Harry bites down on Louis’s shoulder, pulling back one more time, slamming in and coming with a broken _Louis_ leaving his mouth.

He feels like he’s falling, falling into everything Louis is and everything he wants, Louis’s white hot heat clenching around him as he comes deep inside. Harry collapses onto Louis, his weight pushing them both into the blankets.

Louis pushes Harry’s hair back, a small smile on his face as he rubs over Harry’s cheekbones. They stay there, for a silent moment, Harry pulsing inside Louis and everything is okay.

Everything is okay.

_**Your heart is so blue.** _  
_**Maybe it’s a shade that will look** _  
_**good on you.** _

**Route 71, Nebraska**

Harry wonders, if for a brief moment, just a fleeting thought, gone and there so fast like the wind, flying past him he doesn’t even have a moment to grasp it, really. It comes to him as Louis is laying on a blanket, gasping, his chest sweat slicked and red flushed on his cheeks, creeping up like fire.

Harry wonders, as he looks at the fire red flush on Louis’s cheek, that if he were to set himself on fire, if that is what love would feel like. If love is supposed to consume and destroy and burn away until there is nothing left. If love is supposed to feel like everything is igniting and falling apart, until it’s ashes on the ground, smoking up your lungs, and maybe that is why Harry can’t breathe.

Louis is all _RedRedRed_ as he looks like the sun and maybe he’s trying to set himself alight so he can understand what love feels like. He should really just ask Harry, he knows all about feeling on fire.

Harry thinks Louis is cold, pretty, like glass. Easy to shatter, easy to break, will still cut and make people bleed if they dare step on it. Glass is cold and broken and pieces of him displaced on the floor, glass is a cool shade of blue, pale and gentle and glass could damage people beyond if it shatters itself first.

Louis is cold and pretty, and Harry is setting himself on fire.

_**I love talking about nothing.** _  
_**It is the only thing I know anything about.** _

**Route 385, Nebraska**

“So that’s when I said, _No, Bressie, I will not give you a blowjob before we see your parents._ ” The boy in the driver’s seat laughs, the type of laugh that you want to laugh along with. He slaps his knee and turns to Harry in the back. “You understand, right, Henry?”

“It’s Harry,” he reminds Niall — he’s sure that’s his name. It’s not like they had time for formal introductions, Niall finding them naked on the side of the road. He’s just glad that Niall isn’t a serial killer, or at least doesn’t seem like the type.

The blonde snaps his fingers. “Oh, yeah! I’m just real shit with names, I’ve honestly forgotten what your little boyfriend’s name is.”

Louis had already fallen asleep on the grey seats — which smell like pine trees, not the familiar smoke and mint Harry is used to — and his face hidden in the fabric and covered by his disheveled hair. He’s still lovely, and it’s quite unfair.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Harry mutters, carding a hand through Louis’s hair.

“Yeah, okay,” Niall chuckles, turning on an exit. The roads are paved now, less bumpy than before. “I mean, it’s not like I drove past you guys naked snuggling in the back of a car. But. Okay.”

Harry bites his tongue to keep from laughing. “Don’t all platonic bro pals do that, though?”

“Just like all platonic bro pals give each other blowies between bathroom breaks?” Niall laughs some more. Harry can’t fight a grin any longer, it spreading onto his face. He thinks in a different world, if they met under other circumstances, he and Niall could be great friends.

“Who said anything about blowies?” Harry smiles. Louis shifts underneath him, his fingers brushing his scalp.

Niall shakes his head. “Did they not teach you what happens when two people love each other very much? Person A sticks their thing into Person B’s hole, whether that be a mouth, vagina, asshole, or if they’re particularly kinky — ”

“Louis doesn’t love me.” The words slip out of his mouth and they burn, hard to form and he’s left with a disgusting feeling dripping down his lips, making them sticky and heavy, hard to form words with.

“So, his name’s Louis?” Niall taps his fingers on the steering wheel, the only sound within the car for a few brief moments. “Nice name for a nice lad.”

Louis shuffles in his current position, his face coming to rest in Harry’s lap. Harry bites down the urge to smile, praying that a flush doesn’t creep up his neck as Louis nuzzles his nose into Harry’s legs.

Niall whistles out a tune, his fingers still tapping at the steering wheel. “Do you love him?”

“What?” Harry sputters, eyes widening and his hand coming to rest on Louis’s back, drawing small circles over the shirt.

“Do you love him?” Niall repeats, sighing and turning over in his seat to look at Harry, the car only slightly swerving from his lane. “You know, since you seem to be caught up on the fact that your little boyfriend doesn’t love you, despite the fact he wouldn’t let you go when I picked you guys up, and you’ve got that stupid look in your eyes.”

“And what look is that?”

“Like the sun shines out of his goddamn asshole,” Niall says. “Which, is grand and all. True romance, right there.”

“I think so,” Harry whispers so quiet, he can barely hear it. His hand comes to rest in the small of Louis’s back. “It doesn’t matter, though.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Niall throws his arms up from the steering wheel, and Harry almost lurches in his seat. “Go up to him, and kiss his face off! Proclaim your undying love for each other, like that movie, where they’re about to die and that girl is all like _yeah, I love you, but I’m going to let you drown in the ocean._ ”

“Are you talking,” Harry says slowly, “about _The Titanic_?”

“That’s the one.” Niall nods “That was an awful movie by the way. Overrated. Jack just had to die, didn’t he — ”

“Thanks for the advice,” Harry says dryly. “I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Anytime, old pal.” Niall grins and leans back into his seat, his hands draped across the steering wheel. “So, as I was saying, me and my mate Bressie — ”

Harry leans his head against the window, his hands still at Louis’s scalp, wondering how the fuck he ended up in a stranger’s car in Nebraska, with a lovely boy in his arms, who feels like everything he’s ever wanted.

_**In the end, we were all just humans,** _  
_**drunk on the idea that love,** _  
_**only love, could save us.** _

**Denver, Colorado**

The motel in Denver is narrow and cramped, too small for the large furniture. A bed against the wall, with floral print that vaguely looks like a shirt that Harry once wore. An old wooden table with two matching chairs, a worn tablecloth thrown over it. They’ve managed to squeeze in an old TV, dust covering the screen as if it hadn’t been touched in years.

Louis is covered in the floral sheets, and it only kind of reminds Harry of the time Louis wore his shirt, and that only kind of makes his cock twitch, which only kind of reminds of the time he got to fuck _Louis fucking Tomlinson,_ and if he keeps thinking about that, he’s going to come in his pants, right then and there.

“Harry,” Louis whispers from underneath the sheets, his face poking out with a small smile on his face that Harry has to smile along with. “Get under the covers.”

“Why?” Harry mutters, but still has a stupid smile on his face as he pulls the covers up, ducking underneath so he’s sitting opposite of Louis. It’s dark and everything is tinted a slight blue from the sheets, but he can still see Louis’s eyes radiating off his face, and it’s okay.

Louis leans down on his elbows so they land on his knees, chin resting on his hands. He looks up at Harry through his eyelashes. “You should tell me a story.”

“I should?” Harry shifts in his position so he’s eye level with Louis, nowhere to look but at each other.

“You should,” Louis whispers, nodding as he takes Harry’s hand in his, landing between them on the bed.

Harry thumbs over Louis’s knuckles as he asks in hushed voice, “Why are we whispering?”

A small smile blooms on Louis’s face, his tongue between his teeth. “Because when mum would go to sleep, me and my sisters would hide in the lounge underneath the blankets, and we would whisper stories until the sun made it’s way over the horizon.” He looks down at their hands. “So, I want you to tell me a story.”

“I’m not as interesting as you.” No one is as interesting as Louis, Harry thinks. No one at all.

Louis’s eyes flicker up to his. “I think you’re utterly fascinating.”

Harry wants to laugh, wants to roll his eyes and lay on the floor and laugh at the notion that someone as interesting as Louis could be fascinated with Harry. It doesn’t work like that, Harry is the one who takes the pictures and Louis is the one who barely notices he’s there.

“When I was twelve, I puked into a girl’s mouth.” Harry grimaces at the memory, of pink balloons and nice dresses and cupcakes with purple sprinkles. “It was her birthday.”

Louis throws a hand over his mouth to contain his laughter. “And how did you managed to do that?”

“It was probably just something I ate.” Harry chuckles. “But Gem likes to say that it was the beginning of my _great, big, gay awakening_.”

A burst of laughter breaks through Louis’s mouth, and Harry laughs along with him. “You were just _so_ grossed out at the thought of touching a girl that you vomited on her. If I were her, I would have been pissed.”

“She was!” Harry says between laughs. “She threw me out with vomit still hanging down her dress. I think it made her dress look better, but.”

Louis hits him on the shoulder with his other hand not on Harry’s, giggles still pouring out of his mouth. “If you ever vomit on me, I will make it my life goal to make sure you never get another partner. Who knows who will be your next victim.”

Harry smiles and leans over so their foreheads knock into each other. “Well, if we kiss now and I _don’t_ vomit on you, what would that mean?”

“That would mean that you’re really bad at pickup lines.” Louis giggles and covers Harry’s mouth with his hand.

Harry grins into Louis’s hand as he pulls it off. “Do you want to hear the best pickup line ever?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“You’ll never be able to resist me if you hear it.”

“In that case,” Louis grins. “I really don’t want to hear it.”

“Are you a banana?” Harry begins to chuckle before he even finishes the joke, and Louis cracks a smile with him. “Because I find you _a peeling._ ”

“Oh my _God_.” Louis pushes Harry over until he’s flat on his back, Louis’s legs straddling either side of his body. He leans down until their lips are almost touching, just barely brushing each other. “You are the worst.”

Harry’s hands come to rest on Louis’s hips. “Do you have a compass?” He bites back a moan as Louis shuffles in his lap, his bum brushing Harry’s hardness. “Because I’m lost in your eyes.”

“How _are_ you single?” Louis laughs against Harry’s mouth. “I mean, really, with pick up lines like those, you should have a trail of suitors just waiting for you.”

“I _know_.” Harry squeezes Louis’s hips. “That’s what I’ve been saying. Do you want to hear another one?”

“Not really.” Louis leans his elbow into Harry’s shoulder, and Harry doesn’t even mind the dull ache beginning to bloom there. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“I’ve got the ship, you’ve got the harbor.” Harry twists his hips underneath Louis, trying to get some friction. “What do you say we tie it up for the night?”

“Is that euphemism for sex?” Louis plays with a curl at the nape of Harry’s neck. “Because if so, I hate to break it to you, we’ve already done it.”

“Not exactly,” Harry pouts as he rubs his thumb along the slip of skin escaping Louis’s shirt. “It could be some wonderful metaphor, like I’m a ship, you’re a compass, we can find our way back to each other — ”

“Wow, Harry,” Louis giggles as he tugs on a curl. “I never knew you could be so poetic. It’s making me teary eyed, truly.”

Harry knows Louis is joking, but Harry really _isn’t_. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but there could be something wonderful about Louis being a compass, guiding Harry, showing Harry the way, and Harry being the one to bring them there.

God, he’s turning into a sappy piece of shit, now isn’t he.

Louis rocks back on Harry’s clothed hips, causing Harry to tighten his grip just the slightest bit. “So, a compass and a ship.” Louis repeats. “Me and you. Ship and compass. Finding home.”

Harry doesn’t know what home is, just that whenever he imagines it, Louis is there in Harry’s shirt with a cup of tea, sitting on the counter as Harry makes breakfast with the early morning sun creeping between the curtains. And there’s always piles of books on the counter and the walls are covered with pictures of them and it doesn’t matter if they’re cold or hungry but they have _each other_.

“Yeah,” Harry swallows. “Home.”

_**You are so brave and quiet** _  
_**I forget you are suffering.** _

**Denver, Colorado**

Harry is not sure how it happened, just that it was very early in the morning, the sun creeping over the horizon, pale yellow over the city, and that Louis had dragged him into the first tattoo parlor they saw. They were both laughing, and both giddy with the excitement of doing something neither of them had ever done before.

They held each other’s hand while Zed — or Zach, or something along those lines — used his needle, digging into his skin. If Louis had let out a tear, Harry may have laughed and kissed it away.

_You’re ridiculous._ Harry had laughed in his ear, pulling his hair back as the sun made its way up the sky, through the windows. _Absolutely ridiculous. Doesn’t even hurt._ And Louis had stuck his tongue out, a nice tongue, one that has been in Harry’s mouth and he would like for it to be again.

And Zed — or Zach — had rolled his eyes at them and muttered _You guys are so in love, it’s sickening._

And Louis had echoed back _in love_ and Harry thinks he adored the way Louis says _love_ , like the word means something, because while everyone falls in love with Louis, Louis doesn’t fall in love with anyone. Louis says _love_ the way Harry says _Louis_ , caressing the letters and letting them leave their lips like a poem, each syllable meaning something, the words falling over and breaking and meaning more than just _love._

_I love you_ are three words that hang off of Harry’s lips and this time, Harry thinks he may finally let the colors of the words drip off and let Louis see what he means, see everything, and maybe the flowers in Harry’s lungs will allow him to breathe instead of choking him, as if Louis loving him would take the flowers and replace them with his lips, soft and pressing and gentle.

But _I love you_ gets caught in his throat, and Louis catches his breath, and Harry wonders if Louis has flowers growing in his lungs, too.

_**With freedom, books,** _  
_**flowers, and the moon, who could** _  
_**not be happy?** _

**Denver, Colorado**

Harry decides he likes a lot of things. He likes the feel of the grass on the back of his arms, how it tickles up and down his spine, like nature is trying to get a smile out of him. He likes the sound of the wind in his ears, blowing away every thought he could have and replacing it with clear noise. He likes feeling weightless. He likes not thinking. He likes this.

He likes the way his body curls when Louis runs his fingers through his hair. He likes the blue of the pansies in the field, how they look so much like the shades of blue the flowers the girl across the hall used to sell to him, how they appear so faded compared to the sharp blue of Louis’s eyes. He likes the sound of Louis’s laugh in the wind, how even the loud breeze passing by seems to know that there is something more important than himself.

He likes Louis.

Harry’s head is in Louis’s lap, his nose tickling the grass around them. This field is nice, secluded from everywhere else. Long spans of flowers can be seen from every side, and Louis is there.

Louis is there. Louis is braiding flowers into his hair, humming a tune to himself, Harry can barely make it out from the wind blowing around them, but he can still feel it, the vibrations moving down Louis’s body and into Harry’s mind.

Always in Harry’s mind. Always fluttering around in every corner and edge and surface, always filling Harry’s mind with Louis’s eyes or Louis’s laugh or Louis’s smile or just _LouisLouisLouis._

If Harry had to choose one thing to be driven mad by, he would choose Louis Tomlinson.

Louis, who looks like everything Harry wants and everything Harry can’t have, smiling down at Harry with his fingers holding blue flowers and Harry’s hair. Harry wants to wipe that smile off his face and replace it with his lips. Louis’s lips look beautiful in a smile, even lovelier with Harry’s mouth against his.

“We would be great together, don’t you think?” And it takes Harry a moment to realize that those words had left his mouth. Not even left, they blurted out of his lips, and his mouth fumbled over the words.

Louis just laughs, throwing his head back with his shoulders shaking and neck exposed, begging to be bitten on and licked. “No.” Louis smiles a bit, the corners of his mouth pulling up. “We would be positively _awful_ together.”

Harry scoffs and rolls over onto the grass, burying his face into the dirt. “What makes you say that?” His voice is muffled, mumbling out nonsense. “We would be the dream team. Think Batman and Robin, Jack and Rose, Danny and Sandy — ”

“What _are_ you on about?” Louis laughs into the air, and Harry can hear the rustle of him moving to lay next to Harry. His breath is hot on Harry’s back. “I am terrible for you.”

“And I’m terrible for you.” Dirt tastes bitter on Harry’s tongue. “Look what an amazing team we’d make.”

Louis moves around some more, the grass rustling beneath them, until Harry can feel the sharp dig of Louis’s chin against his shoulder. “You’re not very convincing, Mister Law Major Man.” He chuckles against Harry’s ear. “Shouldn’t you be fantastic at telling people what you want?”

Harry turns around in one quick motion, his hands landing on Louis’s hips so they are both sitting up in the grass, Louis’s legs landing on either side of Harry’s. Louis let’s out a small giggle as he’s hoisted up, tangling his fingers into Harry’s hands.

“I want you, Louis.” His voice is raspier than he intended, but Louis’s shiver indicates that it’s not necessarily a bad thing. “I want you to be my boyfriend and we can hug and kiss whenever we want and maybe one day we’d get married and move in together and have ten kids and — ”

Harry doesn’t even know what’s coming out of his mouth at this point. Probably utter nonsense. Utter shit nonsense.

“Slow down there, Styles.” Louis is still smiling. Always smiling. But there is something behind it, something less at ease than before. “Marriage is forever. Forever is a very long time.”

“I would like a long time with you.” Harry thinks he sounds like something out of a romance movie. But if this were a movie, he and Louis would've probably been married in like, Vegas or something at this point. Focus, Harry.

Louis runs his thumb across Harry’s hand. “You don’t want me to be forever.”

“Really?” Harry raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

There’s a moment of silence and a flicker behind Louis’s eyes before he responds. “Because I’ll break your heart.”

“Now, that’s a bit egotistical.” Harry scoffs and leans back on his hands, rolling his head back and chuckling. “What if I break yours first?”

“You won’t break my heart.” Louis seems so sure of himself, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed in front of him. Harry kind of wants to kiss the crease between his eyebrows. “Nobody will.”

Harry digs his hands into the grass. He’ll have dirt under his nails later. “What if I’m the first?”

“You won’t be.” Louis rolls his eyes and shifts on Harry’s hips. “I’ll do something and you will be all sad and heartbroken with your puppy eyes. Maybe you’ll have some mental breakdown and end up shaving your hair, or something.”

“I feel like this is getting out of hand.” Harry laughs and shakes his hair over his face in dramatics, a few petals falling down into his lap. “I would never shave my hair. Too long and lucious.”

Louis reaches up to grab a curl. “Exactly. I wouldn’t want to see you cut off your hair. It’s the best part about you.”

“I, Harry Styles,” Harry begins, pulling Louis’s hand away from his hair to tangle with his fingers, “promise to break your heart.”

“You’re still not making a very compelling case for your argument.” Louis smiles as he looks at Harry, his tongue between his teeth. “Who wants to get heartbroken? Imagine what an entirely awful feeling that is, being all alone and sad and crying while watching bad movies and eating your body weight in ice cream — ”

Harry grabs Louis’s hips to flip them over, Louis underneath him, grass bracketing either side of his face. He opens his mouth to say something, probably along the lines of _Harry, you big fucking hulk_ but Harry closes his gasp with his own lips, soft and sweet and gentle against each other.

“You’re mine,” Harry whispers against his lips, kissing up the span of Louis’s jaw and down his neck. “All mine mine mine, and I’ll make sure you’re never alone.”

Never, ever alone. Never again.

“That’s a bit possessive of you.” Louis probably tried to make his voice sound sharp, but it sounds soft and _sweet_ , as Harry sucks along the column of his throat. “What if you’re mine?”

“Maybe we’re each other’s.” Harry bites along the skin above Louis’s collarbone, Louis gasping and tugging on Harry’s curls in one hand while digging his fingers into Harry’s arm with the other.

“God, I live in a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel.” Louis’s voice is raspy and quiet against Harry’s ear.

Harry bites his ear and chuckles, blowing warm air. “What’s wrong with that?”

Louis is quiet for a moment, nothing but fingers tugging on Harry’s hair as he kisses Louis’s neck, leaving marks along the skin, and nothing can be heard besides the sound of the wind.

_**Our spirits spark into stunning fireworks** _  
_**to light up this dark world.** _

**Denver, Colorado**

_There are some people who believe that there are an infinite amount of parallel universes._ Louis whispers this, on the bus back into the city, his hands grasping onto Harry as if he were going to float away. _They think that there are endless universes with endless possibilities._

Harry shifts in his seat, watches for a moment as the orange sunset silhouettes Louis’s profile up against the window, and he takes out his camera, for a picture, doesn’t mind how Louis smiles at him and nudges his foot.

Louis looks at him through his eyelashes, lets them flutter over his cheekbones. _It means that in one universe, we may have hated each other. Or maybe we grew up together, across the streets in a cute little neighborhood. Or there is an universe out there where we were in a boyband together, imagine that._

_Funny._ Harry plays with Louis’s foot, kicking against each other. He leans into Louis’s hair; it smells like smoke and mint. _Does that mean there is a universe where we never meet each other?_

Louis leans on Harry’s shoulder, until his lips brush against his jaw, barely grazing, really. It still makes Harry’s heart flutter every time, like it’s the first.

_I think in every universe, we’ll find each other._

_**You forgot my lips were a loaded gun** _  
_**that would destroy you.** _

**Denver, Colorado**

Symphony auditoriums smell like cleaning supplies and expensive wine. They look like designer suits and pretentious stares and red walls with intricate gold engravings and people who paid too much money to get into the stupid building in the first fucking place.

Which is exactly why Harry and Louis didn’t pay.

Which is why they’re in the back corner where the lights just barely hit them, where they can giggle and whisper and hide in their own world without anybody even noticing they are even there. Which is why Louis can laugh at Harry’s stupid jokes and Harry can smile at Louis laughing without being shushed or scolded. Which is why Harry can watch Louis listen to the music because why the fuck would anyone listen to the music when they can stare at something so much more beautiful.

Louis’s eyes never linger from the musicians, staring with such intensity that Harry wouldn’t be surprised if they could feel his gaze from where they sit. “I like the pianist.” A smile tugs at his lips. “They’re nice.” His fingers find Harry’s with his eyes still locked on the music. “Did I ever tell you I played the piano?”

Harry’s eyes lock on Louis. “No.” He runs a finger over Louis’s thumb. “You didn’t.”

“Well. I did.” Louis’s eyes have something behind them, the curl of his lips a bit sour, as if he had sucked on a lemon. Bitter. “I like to think I was quite okay with it.”

“What’d you want to be when you were younger?” Harry bites his lip and runs a hand down Louis’s thigh when he feels the slight freeze in Louis’s hands, stilling in Harry’s. His hand is cold.

There’s a pause in the air. “I wanted to play the piano.” Louis’s eyes don’t waver the slightest. “I wanted to play professionally, for crowds and stuff.” Louis snorts. “I think I just liked the attention, if I’m honest.”

“I would love to hear you play.” Louis’s eyes falter but recover a moment later, intently watching the music as if it were the most amazing thing in the world. And maybe it is, for Louis, stars flickering behind his skull as his eyes dance to the music.

“I haven’t played in a long time,” Louis says after a moment, his fingers curling in Harry’s hand. “I might be a bit rough. I could be utter shit, really.”

Harry leans over to kiss the edge of Louis’s jaw, feeling his eyelashes flutter over his cheek as he whispers.

“I think you’re lovely.”

_**You are so terribly beautiful,** _  
_**so unbearably human.** _

  
**Denver, Colorado**

Old music stores smell like sweat and dust. They look like they haven’t seen the light of day in twenty years and exposed piping in the corners and spider webs line every surface but it’s okay because it’s for them and it’s everything Harry could want.

Louis plays the piano like he had never stopped, like the piano is playing him instead. It sounds like instead of him giving the piano life, the piano breathes something back into him.

His fingers dance over the keys like the most elegant waltz and his eyes close as if he’s somewhere else. A smile plays at his lips, never quite making it’s way fully, but it’s enough for Harry to see.

Harry feels like there is something different about Louis when he plays, like there is a box inside of him that opens, lets everything in and out, everything he can’t say out onto the keys and the keys send back parts of Louis that he had forgotten, parts that maybe he hadn’t even known existed.

Parts of Louis come together, little things like his laugh and his smile or how he looks like when he cries or when the light hits his hair or how he looks underneath Harry or when he’s telling Harry a stupid poem or when he’s kissing Harry or when he smiles and it’s not the smile he gives other people but it’s _Louis’s smile_ , the true one, the real one, and it’s all entirely Louis.

Harry is in love with Louis’s smile, he thinks.

Or maybe he’s just in love with Louis.

_**I belong to the stars under my skin,** _  
_**to lonely hearts, to the dark.** _

**Denver, Colorado**

Warm summer air makes their palms sweat between them, sticky and tacky skin rubbing against one another. Their arms swing between them, and sometimes Louis likes to duck underneath and twirl around as if they were dancing. And maybe they are, dancing their own special type of dance, one that only they can do.

Louis likes to giggle when they dance, tucking Harry’s arms around him as they make their way across the city roads, nothing but flickering streetlights that resemble fireflies and the faint glow of the moon. The streets are empty, and Harry would be almost scared if it weren’t for Louis smiling as he whispers _Look at the moon, Harry, look how it shines for us._

And Harry would respond _How do you know it’s for us, Louis?_ And Louis would grin and tilt his head to the side while raising an eyebrow, as if to say _How do you know it’s not?_

And they stop in a little souvenir store, and Harry buys Louis a snowglobe, and Louis buys Harry a pair of socks with weed on them, because _It’s just fitting for you, you know?_

And they’re laughing and they’re smiling and the moon is shining above them and they’re so very, very happy.

Louis pulls them into an alley, pushing Harry up against a brick wall and kissing up his jawline. Harry would tease him for the fact that he had to go on his tiptoes to reach Harry’s mouth, but Louis cups his clothes erection and he let’s out a moan before he can say anything.

“Louis,” Harry gasps, sinking his teeth into Louis’s lips to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping in and out of Louis’s mouth. He goes down to grasp at Louis’s arse, pushing him up to meet in the middle. The kiss is sloppy, spit dripping down between them, the brick wall is digging into his spine, but that doesn’t matter as Louis slides his hand down into Harry’s jeans.

He’s about to say how stupid this is, that anyone could catch them in the middle of fucking Denver, but all rational thought leaves his mind as Louis drops to his knees and unzips his jeans, yanking them down to his midthigh.

He smiles up at Harry through his eyelashes, mouthing over Harry’s clothed cock, which is hardening embarrassingly fast. His kiss bruised lips mouth over his briefs, getting them relatively soaked and Harry relatively hard, and he just looks so innocent on his knees for Harry, eyelashes fluttering over his cheekbones with the moon in his hair and Harry just wants to wreck him, get him under him and fuck him until he can’t do anything except cry out Harry’s name.

Louis pulls his briefs down and kisses the tip of Harry’s cock, precum lining his lips. He licks them clean, smirking at Harry as he whispers, “I want you to fuck my mouth.”

Harry’s hips stutter at that, almost fucking right up into Louis’s pink lips. Louis giggles and rubs his hipbone. “A bit excited, are we?”

And Harry doesn’t even have time to respond before Louis sinks down on his cock. Harry moans just at the sight of Louis’s lips wrapped around him, grabbing Louis’s hair to pull at it, yanking him off only to fuck his hips up into his mouth, open and tight and waiting for Harry.

Louis is very good at this, his tongue digging into the slit whenever he pulls up, licking down the length as he goes back down. Harry can feel his moans whenever he pulls his hair, feels it vibrating up his body in the best way possible, feels Louis’s exhale from his nose on the base of his cock, the back of his throat fluttering around the head.

“God, Lou.” He’s only kind of shocked about how deep his voice is. “Just look at you. You look so pretty around my cock. The prettiest boy.”

Louis moans and the only word to describe it would be _pretty._ Pretty with his mouth stretched open wide and Harry’s balls nearly resting on his chin and pretty when he pulls off almost completely only to sink back down to the base, slow and teasing.

“Want to see you, Lou.” He pulls on Louis’s hair again. “Want to see just how pretty you are.”

And. Louis’s eyes open up to Harry’s. The blue of them is bright and intense against the darkness of the alley and there are tear streaks running down his cheeks, all messy. His eyes are shiny and glistening with fresh tears and he blinks one away, having it roll down his face.

And Harry just loses it. He pulls on Louis’s hair hard, a moan leaving his mouth as he fucks his hips forward again and again, feeling Louis swallow with his throat going tight and Harry just wants to _feel_ it. He leans down to wrap his hand around Louis’s throat, ever so lightly, feeling his cock and.

Everything goes by in a blur. Harry thinks he’s losing his mind, Louis wrapped so nice around him and his mouth split open around Harry’s cock, tears running down the side, and he can’t fucking stop, can’t stop snapping his hips forward until Louis’s nose reaches his stomach, can’t stop feeling the flutter of his throat.

He feels it, the growing burn inside his stomach that only has him pulling harder on Louis’s hair. His head is spinning, mind whirling, and he comes with a shout of _Louis!_ as he jerks his hips forward one more time, the pleasure almost painful as he releases deep into Louis’s hot mouth.

Harry falls back on the wall, mumbling out things he doesn’t quite know. He drops to his knees and pulls Louis in for a kiss, tasting him along his tongue and deep in his throat.

Louis’s lips are puffy and red but Harry can never get enough of him, can never get over kissing him and touching him, muttering _so good, so lovely, thank you._

Harry runs his fingers over Louis’s cheekbones, pulling back to look him in the eyes. The blue of his eyes are just as bright, less shiny and more subdued in a way. He kisses him one last time, soft and gentle.

“Say something,” he whispers against his lips. “Please.”

Louis’s voice is raspy and fucked out, and Harry is absolutely not prepared for it.

“You have a really fucking big prick.”

_**Beware of those who seek constant crowds;** _  
_**they are nothing.** _

**Route 70, Colorado**

_I’ve got a confession for you._ Louis says from the passenger seat, feet on the dashboard. He wiggles his toes, pokes Harry in the arm. _Are you listening?_

Of course Harry is listening. He hangs onto Louis’s every word like it’s the air he breathes. _If you have to piss again, we’re not stopping. You’ve got like, three times in the past half hour. Use an empty water bottle and pray you have good aim._

_I would never pee in a bottle._ Louis shoves his arm with his foot, scoffing at Harry. _I’ve got class. I’m classy as shit. The Queen is jealous of how proper I am._

Harry taps the steering wheel, letting the rhythm fill the silence. _You’re not going to tell me you’re a vampire or something, right?_

Louis raises his hands in surrender, the sleeves of his shirt bunching at the elbows, the black ink of the compass on his skin looking like a piece of writing. Harry wants to run his hands over the skin, wants to feel the warm skin, wants to hear the intake of Louis’s breath as he presses down into him, the pain still residing in his skin like the ache in Harry’s heart. He wants Louis to feel the way Harry does when Louis smiles, wants Louis to hear the shatter of his heart when he laughs, wants Louis to understand that Harry is choking in the dirt Louis has brought.

Harry wants Louis to feel what it’s like to be _in love_ , because if Harry is going to feel like there is glass cutting along his skin up to his mouth, he’s doing to make sure he kisses Louis until he tastes it in his lips.

_When we first met in New York._ Louis begins, his hands curling in his palms, tightening in the fabric of his shirt. _When we first met, I had watched you sit down and I watched how your eyes had never really focused on anything and I watched the way you seemed to carry something on your shoulders. Do you know what it’s like when you see someone and you feel like you’ve seen them before?_

Harry glances from the road, the sun in his eyes as Louis’s hair is the color of the golden rust on the old truck they had driven. His eyes linger on Louis for a second longer than either of them would like to admit. _Yeah, I do._

_I think I saw some of myself in you. Like feeling you’re by yourself, like there’s nothing, nobody for you. I think, it was like —_

_Like what, Louis?_

_It was like I needed to know you._

Harry is ready to let go of the wheel, let the car run into a wall and take the both of them out, because it would hurt less than hearing those words come from Louis and know that Louis doesn’t understand what that means to Harry.

_So._ Harry knows his voice cracked, an ugly sound, really. _Like love at first sight?_

_Do you believe in love at first sight?_

Harry sees the curl of Louis’s lips, decides he wants to kiss them, and. _Yes. I do._

_Good. Me, too._

_**I would like to be the air that** _  
_**inhabits you for a moment only.** _

**Silverthorne, Colorado**

The moon slips through the yellow curtains — probably white at some point, but stained with the residue of smoke and air and are now the color of forgotten love, because that is all motel rooms are good for. Forgotten love, the way the dust falls and sways in the air as if it could stay there forever, each particle seemingly larger than before, how it lands on the table, content. There are two hearts laid on the floor and Harry is not sure what to do with either of them.

Louis takes the blunt to his lips, the smoke escaping his mouth like the way words leave it, grey and empty and Harry wants to put his lips to Louis’s so he can take everything Louis wants to say and he wants to take everything from Louis and he wants to take him right there, wants to feel his skin under his fingertips — it looks very soft, like silk, Harry wants to bruise it purple — and he wants to take and take and take until there is nothing left.

Harry’s eyes stay on his lips, the way they form into a smile, his laughs echoing in the room as if he were shouting in Harry’s ears. He sees the way Louis’s eyelashes flutter over his cheekbones, so very pretty. Louis is so pretty. Harry wants to wreck him until he is yelling _Harry_ in his very, very pretty way.

“You’re so pretty.” Harry doesn’t mean to say it, but. “You’re so, so pretty. Do you know that? Too pretty, I think. Unfairly pretty. I love — ” _you_. Harry knows the word hangs in the air the same way the smoke does, residing and heavy. “I love how pretty you are.”

Louis giggles, throws his head back on the floor, a thump of his head on the beige carpet. He rubs his eyes, takes the blunt into his mouth. “Am I, now?”

“Very pretty.” Harry can see each eyelash blink as his eyes look up at Harry, the freckles resting on the side of his cheek. He never saw those before, would like to kiss them silly. His mouth feels like cotton balls were stuffed in between his teeth. “Would you come over here?”

The wooden chair underneath him creeks as Louis settles into his lap, his knees digging into the side of Harry’s hips. Louis looks so messy, his hair in his eyes — which are hazy, and a few shades darker than blue pansies, not as bright, deeper and more intense, burning into Harry’s skin. His lips are a fine shade of red as he presses the blunt to his lips, letting the smoke escape between the two of them as Harry watches the smoke disappear into the ceiling, there and gone, moving in slow motion, as if it wouldn’t mind a few more moments in Louis’s mouth.

“I can’t breathe when I’m around you.” Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying, and he knows he should stop before this goes too far, but the way Louis is looking at him causes him to just press his fingertips beneath his shirt, into the small of his back. “And I can’t breathe when I’m without you, and sometimes I think you’re air, but other times — ”

“Stop talking,” Louis whispers, voice small and quiet as his gaze buries itself deep within Harry’s skin, into his bloodstream, and it’s just one more thing that Louis has taken of Harry’s. “Stop talking, _God, fuck,_ stop talking.”

Harry stares for a second, or a minute, or a few hours, he’s not really sure because it feels like they’re hanging onto the edge of infinity and he could stay here forever, really. Louis sucks in more smoke, leaning down to connect their lips, fire licking down Harry’s spine as he breathes in the smoke Louis is, intoxicating his brain, his fingers digging into his hips.

“I want you.” Louis’s lips brush against his as he says it, the smoke still lingering on his lips. “I want you so much, please, Harry.”

Harry’s never been good at saying _no_ to Louis, never been good at saying no when Louis says his name like it’s something important, as if Harry were his own personal drug that he can’t stop taking. He’s not good at saying no when Louis grinds himself into Harry’s lap, his own arousal brushing against Harry’s stomach, already so much, even in between the layers of clothes.

“Louis,” Harry groans into the dip of his shoulder. He wants to pull Louis apart, wants to tear everything off and watch him as he writhes for Harry, begs for it. He would be so pretty underneath him, always was, always will be. He wants to unravel everything Louis is, to feel more and stop feeling.

“Please.” Louis’s eyes are on his, and that’s all it takes for Harry to take Louis in his arms, his legs wrapping around Harry’s waist. It’s good that it is, good that Harry has such a tight hold on Louis, with Louis being so pliant in his arms, Louis’s lips making their way to the side of Harry’s neck.

The sheets are yellow, the color of pale daisies in the springtime, with the print of dull, pink roses on them. Louis pulls his shirt over his head as his back hits the sheets, sweat already dripping down his hair and into the pool of his collarbones. Harry wants to drink from them, and that’s exactly what he does, dipping his head to suck a blooming bruise onto his skin, feeling the way Louis’s feet dig into the small of his back.

“Harry,” Louis breathes out, tugging on the fabric of Harry’s shirt. “Harry, come _on._ ”

Harry presses a hand to Louis’s stomach, pushing him further into the sheets and silencing him. Louis’s eyes darken, eyes running over the length of Harry’s still clothed body. Louis still whines against his lips when they connect, and Harry presses the palm of his hand harsher, in warning.

“Let me have this, Louis,” Harry says, breathless as he rests his forehead against Louis’s, their eyes gazing into one another’s. “Let me have you, please.”

Louis’s eyebrows furrow as Harry kisses down his body, leaving marks along the bones of his ribs, the dip of his stomach, the skin pulled taut along his hipbone. Louis is gasping for breath by the time Harry pulls down his pants, his body littered with _HarryHarryHarry_ , and it only makes him harder.

He hears it when Harry first laps his tongue over Louis’s hole, the way Louis’s gasps fill the room. If Louis was having trouble breathing before, he couldn’t be having an easy time if the way his chest is moving up and down is any hint. The flush over his chest is a lovely sight, and Harry would love for it to continue. Louis tries to grab onto Harry’s shoulder for any sort of leverage, something to hold onto, something for him to not feel like he’s floating away, probably. His hands find Harry’s hair, pulling it as it tickles his thighs.

Harry can hear him try to moan _Harry_ as Harry’s tongue enters him, a muttered mess leaving his lips instead. Harry thinks he can hear the hammering of Louis’s heart from between his legs, but he ignores that in favor of slipping a finger — or two, or three — alongside his tongue, fucking his way into Louis’s tight rim. Harry’s sounds echo off the walls of the room, obscene and wet alongside Louis’s loud gasps. Louis’s legs begin to wrap around his head, but he pushes his hips into the mattress, Louis whining into the air as he comes, collapsing onto the sheets.

“Harry, Harry.” Louis’s voice is ringing in his ears, as if he were in another room. “Harry, _please_.”

Harry doesn’t see his face when he comes, but he knows it’s heartbreakingly beautiful anyway, eyes shut and pretty pink lips open. He crawls up the length of Louis’s body, pulling his own shirt over his head as he kisses Louis’s cheeks, down to kiss lips, over his neck.

“Louis, I — ” Harry fumbles over his words as Louis’s fingers unbutton his jeans, pulling them down until Harry can kick them off onto the floor, discarded along with the rest of their clothes. Louis pulls him into a breathless kiss, Harry moaning as Louis presses the palm of his hand into Harry’s hard-on. They pull apart with a string of saliva still between them. “Louis, I love — ” The words catch on his lips and it feels like he’s choking on the air Louis gives out. “Louis, love, I — ”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Louis shakes his head as his eyes squeeze shut, turning his head into the sheets, neck exposed and Harry wants to bite into it for Louis to see for days. “You look at me like I mean something.”

Harry’s breath stops, feels like dirt is piling up in his lungs. He pulls a strand of hair from Louis’s eyes, forcing him to look up at him, the blue of his eyes still making Harry’s heart stop every time, and he hates it, wants Louis to feel the way Harry’s lungs contract whenever he manages to look at Louis, how he can’t ever imagine himself without him.

“You mean everything,” Harry whispers. Louis’s chest stutters, tears threatening his eyes and Harry wants to kiss them away, but Louis is rolling onto his stomach, his face between the floral sheets as he sticks his arse in the air, an empty invitation for Harry. It leaves him cold, and lacking, but Louis is so very, very lovely.

Louis’s voice is muffled in the sheets, and Harry thinks there may be a crack in his voice, but. “Fuck me, Harry.” He pushes his face further down, his voice dripping in desperation and something else, and Harry doesn’t want to think about what that is. “Just fuck me, please, fuck me so hard I disappear.”

It’s different than last time, Harry moving slow and dirty in Louis, the drag of his walls clenching around Harry’s cock as if he doesn’t want to let go. Louis whines, tries to fuck himself onto Harry faster, but Harry stills his hips, purple bruises lingering where his hand once was. Harry’s lips are insistent on Louis’s skin, he knows. Harry’s hands push between his shoulder blades, kissing each bone down his spine as he hears the moans leave Louis’s lips, the color of red and roses, of _lovelovelove._

Harry can hear every gasp leave Louis’s mouth, even with the sheets, and he can see every dip of his skin and his eyes train on the area where him and Louis are connected, how tight Louis is stretched around him, how he takes everything Harry is giving him and how much more intense it is than last time, Harry’s pace picking up and the slap of skin on skin and Louis’s _ah ah ah’s_ and Harry’s moans fill the room.

Harry’s fingers trace Louis’s rim, where he and Louis are connected. “You’re the air I breathe, baby.” Harry doesn’t know what he is saying, he’ll blame it on the drugs. “You’re the blood in my veins, you — ”

Louis collapses on the bed, his whole body slumping down as he comes in between him and the sheets with a cry. Harry follows, pressing his chest against Louis’s back, kissing his the dip of his neck and shoulders.

The whimpers leaving Louis’s mouth are echoing in Harry’s ears, and he wouldn’t mind it if that would be the only sound he could hear for the rest of his days. Louis’s hands reach out to grab at the headboard, slipping down the wood and pulling at the sheets. Harry’s fingers come to intertwine with his, grabbing on so tight that Harry feels Louis in his bones.

Harry takes his free hand to tug at Louis’s hair, pulling his head up enough for Harry to kiss his lips, thrusting up into him one final time before coming, heat flashing through his body when he feels Louis tighten around his cock.

“I love you,” Harry whispers against Louis’s lips. “I love you so much.”

Louis stills. Neither of them can breathe.

_**These violent delights have** _  
_**violent ends.** _

**Silverthorne, Colorado**

The bed is cold.

When he reaches his hand out to pull Louis closer to him, all his skin meets are the floral sheets, empty and cool. He fists the sheets, hand bunching in them, but nothing like the feel of Louis’s skin or his lips or his hair meets, and the sound of Louis’s breaths aren’t in his ear, blowing against his hair.

His bones are heavy under his skin, weighing him down as he sits up in bed, the smell of weed and sex resonating in his lungs. The sun is just peaking out between the curtains, pale pink, the shade of cotton candy as it shines into the room. Louis isn’t there.

_Louis isn’t there._

“Louis?” Harry’s voice cracks in the empty space, ringing in his ears. He pulls on a pair of pants, standing up from the bed, the springs creaking underneath his weight. “Louis?” He hears the panic rising in his voice, overflowing. _“Louis?”_

“Did you mean it?” A door slams behind him, and it makes Harry’s stomach drop, the weight of it resting in Harry’s skin. Harry’s breath still catches when he lays eyes on Louis, he doesn’t think it ever won’t. Louis, standing there, fully clothed and if Harry were more observant, he would have seen the tears in his eyes.

There are a lot of things Harry would have noticed, really.

Harry furrows his eyebrows, rising to be closer to Louis, always wants to be closer, always wants to touch. Always a bit selfish, always wants to take and take and take. Louis flinches as Harry takes a step closer, his back hitting the wall and it makes Harry’s throat tighten, like Louis’s hands were around his neck.

“Did you,” Louis’s voice shakes as the words leave his lips, his hands fisting the sleeves of his shirt, tugging at the fabric. Harry thinks he can see his bones shaking, breaking, collapsing until there is nothing left but dust. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Harry is surprised he can say anything right now, that his voice is stable and clear. He takes a step closer, but Louis digs himself further into the wall, his eyes wide and full of something Harry can’t make out, but it leaves Harry the feeling of dirt in his lungs.

“You said you loved me,” Louis says, and there is a crack in his voice, a run of a tear down his cheek. Harry wants to kiss it away, wants to kiss Louis.

Harry swallows, feels the air between them thicken with Louis’s eyes on the floor, Harry’s eyes on him. “Meant it,” Harry whispers, maybe so low the air can barely hear. “Meant every word.”

“No.” Louis shakes his head, and Harry can imagine the bones of his spine digging into the wall with how hard he’s trying to disappear into it. “No, you fucking didn’t. You’re a fucking liar.”

The flowers in Harry’s lungs are roses and the thorns are drawing blood and Harry is drowning in everything he’s never told him and if this is what being in love feels like, he doesn’t mind.

Would never mind if it’s Louis.

“I love you.” Harry doesn’t feel the drag of his feet on the carpet as they move towards Louis, doesn’t even know. He can hear the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall, the sharp intake of breath Louis takes as Harry steps closer. “I love your skin and how soft it is, I love your hair, I love your eyelashes, I love the way they frame your eyes, _God_ , your eyes —”

“Shut up.” Louis shakes his head harder, curls his arms around himself. “Shut up, Harry, shut up.”

Harry’s arms come to rest on either side of Louis’s head, bending down to tilt Louis’s chin up. Louis’s eyes are more blue when they shine, and it’s entirely unfair how beautiful he is when there are tears running down his cheeks.

“I love your voice and I love your laugh and I love the way you say _love._ ” There are tears running down his own cheeks now, and he doesn’t think why. “I love the shade of your eyes when you’re happy or sad and I love how you bite your lip when you smile and I love — ”

“I said _shut up_.”

Harry knocks their forehead together, nowhere to look but each other. “I love how your voice gets higher as you’re about to come and I love how you look under me and I love the bruises on your inner thighs, love how you let me do that to you.”

“Harry.” Louis’s voice is darker, cutting through Harry’s skin. “Shut. Up.”

He doesn’t. “I love how even in a crowded room, you’re all I see and I love how everybody falls in love with you and you don’t even know. I love how the world could crumble around me and all I would see is you, I love — ”

“Shut up, Harry!” Louis punches at his shoulders, kicking at his knees. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“I love you.” Harry brushes his lips over Louis’s, not quite kissing, but it’s enough, still feels the fire between their skin. “I love everything about you.”

Louis goes lax in his arms, pliant and soft as the tips of his eyelashes blink away tears, little sprinkles of starlight trickling down his face. “What do you want me say?” Louis whispers. “What do you want from me?”

“I just, I guess.” The words get caught in Harry’s throat, the feel of Louis’s breath on his lips and the hammering of his heart all too much for him. “I want you to say you love me.”

There are few things in this world that would hurt more than the words Louis would say to him. Louis could probably stab him, rip his heart out and stomp all over it. He could probably slit his throat, watch his skin get paler and just laugh as blood runs down his fingers. Louis could plant every single rose thorn into Harry’s lungs and it would hurt less than the words leaving his lips.

“I don’t love you.” Louis sticks his chin up, voice cracking and Harry fucking _knows_ , he does, but. “I don’t love you. I can’t help it.”

Harry lets out a laugh — or a cry, or a choked noise, really anything in between — because he’s not sure what else to do. “Now who’s the fucking liar?” It’s pathetic how his voice stumbles between the words.

“I can’t help it, Harry.” Louis’s voice is too soft. Harry wishes he would yell it, would scream it until his throat bled. Maybe then he’ll understand how it feels to be in love with someone like him. “I can’t be what you want.”

Harry’s hand comes to slam against the wall beside Louis’s head, and he doesn’t miss the way Louis’s breath hitches at the impact. “What don’t you understand?” He knows he’s yelling, and he knows he should stop, but Harry’s never been very good around Louis. “You’re everything I want.”

“So, what?” Louis scoffs, rolls his shoulder back against the wall. “You want me to say that I love you? Want me to tell you that one day you’ll introduce me to your parents, you to mine?” Louis’s eyes are cold, cold, cold. “Want me to say that we’ll get married, that we’ll ride off into the fucking sunset together?”

It’s funny how Harry has always compared Louis to fire, but right now he’s doing nothing but running his sharp smile, pouring wave after wave of cold ice down Harry’s spine.

“What is so wrong with that?” Harry whispers, hasn’t noticed how Louis has pushed him into the center of the room. He wants to be touching Louis’s skin again, everything is so empty with him. “What is so wrong with being happy?”

“Because that’s not what I am,” Louis says, and he may as well just be talking about the weather, the amount of nonchalance coming from his lips, all ease. “I can’t just pretend that one day we’ll live together and be happy and have a few kids. I’m not the person you’re supposed to wake up to every morning.”

Harry pulls at his hair, wouldn’t be surprised if he ripped some of it out. “Stop telling me what to think! Stop telling me you’re not it for me, because,” Harry catches his breath, wipes at the blur in his eyes, “because you are, you’re all I want.”

Louis looks up at the crack in Harry’s voice. “But you’re not what I want.” His voice his hushed in the air, but it echos in Harry’s ears.

_You’re not what I want._

“Do you know how overwhelming it is to be in love with someone like you?” Harry locks his fingers around Louis’s wrists, pushes them forward until Louis’s back hits the wall again, a breath of air leaving his lips. “Do you know what it’s like to not be able to fucking _breathe_ around someone?”

Louis squeezes his eyes shut, looks down at his feet as he shudders out a breath. “Fuck off.”

“I know you do, Louis.” His name is toxic on his lips, burning and hot. “I know, because I know the way you look at me, I know the way my name tastes on your lips, I know the way your heart skips a beat, I know the way your cheeks flush when I look at you, I know you love me.”

He has to, doesn’t he?

“I have to go.” Louis slips under Harry’s arms, always slipping away, always one step too far for Harry. But, how does catch someone who doesn’t know where they’re going either?

“Louis,” Harry whispers against the wall, before turning around and walking towards Louis, towards the only person he’s ever fucking finally felt at _home_ with.

Louis’s wrist is warm — he is always warm, always soft and hot and everything Harry wants to touch. It’s heavy when Harry locks his fingers around it, forcing Louis to look up with furrowed eyebrows and parted lips, and Harry would very much like to kiss him, but.

“Don’t leave me.” How fucking pathetic he must sound. “Please don’t, everybody leaves. Don’t be everybody, you’re not everybody.” He feels the tightness in his throat break, the streak of tears running down his cheeks. “You’re Louis. Please don’t leave me.”

He’s Louis. That’s all he is. All he is are some bones and a beating heart and a pair of bright eyes. How did he manage to fuck Harry up so bad.

The door slams. The room is cold. The sun is still shining through the curtains and Harry wants to know who gave it the right to allow the world to continue moving while can’t take a step without cutting themselves on pieces of broken hearts.

The bathroom light flickers on and he trips on the pale blue tile, catching himself by his nails on the counter. His fingers touch a piece of paper, slid carefully underneath the bar of soap, as if the person who left it there put every thought they had to make sure it was seen. Harry’s eyes flicker over the piece of paper, words written on in a rush, letters curved and strained, and he understands why people have always told him to never fall in love.

His fist comes in contact with the mirror first, the glass shattering across the floor and he doesn’t even hear himself scream but he knows he is because his throat is bleeding out every single fucking thing he’s never said, and the sting from the cuts in his hand never register, just thin drops of blood, red as roses, dripping down the sides of the counter, and it’s a shame it’s such a lovely color as it stains the piece of paper. His lungs give out, flowers and thorns suffocating him, wrapping around his ribs, and the ink on the paper seeps into his skin and stains his bones black with the color of _lovelovelove._

_I love you._


	2. and it's raining

_**There’s a bluebird in my heart that** _  
_**wants to get out** _  
_**but I’m too tough for him** _  
_**I say, stay down, do you want** _  
_**to mess me** _  
_**up?** _

**San Francisco, California**

There are no stars in San Francisco.

Maybe things that resemble stars, sure. Like the apartment he had gotten when he had arrived, one with peeling blue paint and exposed piping, lights hanging from the ceiling, flickering with every time someone in the building slammed the door. The lights, if Harry looks hard enough, could be stars.

Or the way the fireworks shot up in the sky, illuminating the night as different shades of the same goddamn gun powder sprinkled across the water. He watched couples kiss and laugh as the colors danced across their skin, and he felt the burning down throat as he shot down another bottle of cheap bear.

The feeling he got when he was hired by a local studio, when he was asked to take pictures. He felt a spark, and maybe that would have been enough, but it still didn’t stop him from going home that night and burn through a pack of cigarettes, his lungs stained black and dirty.

There is a flowershop he passes everyday when he goes to work, a pot of blue pansies hanging in the windowsill. Harry swears they’re teasing him, petals falling onto the street as they paint the town with the only color he ever knew. They hang in the shop, until they don’t, and they find a new home hanging in the cracked windows of Harry’s apartment.

The boy downstairs with brown eyes and an all too happy smile gives Harry his number, and a grin, and an open invitation to come over whenever he wants. He throws the number in the nearest bin. He wishes he felt bad, but all that lingers is the feeling of dirt in his lungs and the ashes burning his skin from the cigarette between his fingers. He doesn’t mind the burn.

Someone stops him on the street one day, asking for a missing person. He wants to scream until his throat gives out, until there is blood running down the sides, because he lost someone too. But how do you find someone who doesn’t want to be found.

Mum and Gemma call — everyday, twice a day — and soon the insistent buzzing in the back of his pocket is too much. He throws the phone into the ocean and doesn’t wait long enough to see the screen die out underneath the waves.

He takes out his camera one day, rain pounding on the roof and dripping into his ceiling. There are buckets littered throughout his apartment, the metallic ring every time a drop of water lands echoing off the walls. Harry stops at the first picture, glances at the smile that is inked on the back of his eyelids, and promptly throws up into the toilet. He doesn’t try to look again.

The peeling paint of the walls of his apartment are covered with photographs from work, and the exposed piping is taped over, forgotten. Harry wonders if he could do the same, paint himself over and over and maybe, maybe people will forget he ever was even there.

The apartment still doesn’t feel like home, no matter how many nights Harry spends littering the walls with stupid photos or laying blankets across too rough patches of carpet. No matter how many times he sleeps on his old, creaky mattress, the springs loud under his weight, everything is cold and empty.

He spends two days on the bathroom floor, smoking until he’s sure the flowers in his lungs are dead, but it’s not the reason why he still can’t breathe. It’s not the reason why every time he tries to just speak, words get caught in his throat and his lungs contract and he never feels like there is any clear air for him anymore. His neighbor comes banging on his door, complaining about the smell, and it’s the only reason Harry gets to his feet.

He’s beginning to spend more and more days with the note hidden in his pocket, and he doesn’t think about how unhealthy that must be. Sometimes, if he focuses hard enough, he can imagine the note feels like his skin, and sometimes that’s enough for him to be able to breathe for a few moments.

There is an old bookstore closing down around the corner where he lives, and he picks up poetry books, because he knows he would like them, and he lays them down all around the floor of his apartment picking apart little words and phrases until all the letters eventually look the same and everything looks like him, and Harry’s lungs no longer feel black.

He throws the books into a donation pile for schools. He’s never liked words, anyways.

The grass in Dolores Park turns yellow and the skies are cloudy — they always have been, Harry doesn’t know why he just noticed now.

He takes out his camera the day the snow first hits the ground, and he looks and looks and every time he sees his fucking eyes all he can think about is his smile and his laugh and the crinkles by his eyes and how his eyes were always so _blueblueblue_ — pansies, pretty pansies — and he feels his skin under his fingertips and he feels his breath on his lips and he feels his body wrapped around him and he sees the bruises left on his inner thighs, bruises Harry left, and he can sees his lips and how they kissed and how they fucked and how they fucked and how they fucked the first goddamn time and how they fucked on floral sheets and how he said I love you and his note that hangs around his head every fucking day and how fucking dare he come into his life and then leave like he wasn’t the air Harry fucking breathed.

His hands are always shaking. People ask why, and he smiles and shrugs. Doesn’t matter, he tells them. Not important.

The blue pansies in the windowsill begin to wilt. He thinks for a brief moment that maybe the flowers in his lungs have begun to wilt too, but he lies awake at night with dirt suffocating him. He doesn’t mind. He buys some more the next day.

And it’s 10:23, Friday night, his lungs filled with love and dirt — which, Harry is realizing, are not that different — when Harry decides he’s really fucking in love.

He’s known that all along, really.

San Francisco doesn’t have stars, but the ship lights on the bay in the distance look close enough, and the park bench is empty beneath him — not empty at all, really, if Harry would just turn his fucking head to the right — and if San Francisco had stars, maybe he’d wish for a home, a smile with pretty pink lips, bright blue eyes, someone to kiss, someone to hold, someone with a soul the color of _lovelovelove_ —

“Hello, Harry Styles. Maybe we can try this again.”


End file.
